


In Blackest Envy

by lyriumyue



Series: Silt and Timber [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Descriptive gore, Emotional confessions, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fantasy Violence, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multiple Relationships, Mutual Pining, Nightmare Fuel, Non-Inquisitor Lavellan, POV Alternating, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Political Intrigue, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn, Violence, fast burn, longform, multi-sibling trevelyans, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-12-18 10:32:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 103,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11872503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumyue/pseuds/lyriumyue
Summary: As a reprimand for his actions in Kirkwall, Aedhin Trevelyan is sent to the Conclave of Divine Justinia to redeem his family's reputation. He wakes up injured and cursed, and he climbs the Frostbacks expecting his life to end with a whisper in the ruins of the Temple.Fearing the wrath of the templars in the wake of the explosion, Marcher mage Kiaran flees for Redcliffe with a Dalish spellcaster calling himself Luindir. For Luin, years separated from Clan Lavellan in Wycome, Redcliffe is just a means to an end.Far from home, and with their own tragedies to unravel, what are they willing to sacrifice?Mostly-canon retelling of the events in Inquisition; some minor canon-divergences to support multi-character backstories and events. Long-form, romance-heavy throughout. See tags for more. Violence and sexual content will not be prefaced except for tags.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hand up the pile of debris ahead, beckoned him, he grabbed on, begging her not to let go--

_“For the moment, it is stable.”_

_“Meaning what exactly, Solas?”_

_“Meaning he yet lives for the night. As the Breach’s power grows, this mark responds, but I do not believe this man responsible. He has no mark of magic besides this and the wounds he sustained in the Fade.”_

_“You think him innocent?”_

_“I think him powerless, which is an entirely different scenario. This mark is consuming him, like a parasite, but it is not at all like possession by a demon. While the mark is stable I will return up towards the battle camps and see if I cannot render a similar effect on the rifts through the path. Our time runs remarkably short. If he awakens, bring him through the pass. I might be able to teach him to control it, if he is willing.”_

_“That is a lot to weigh on faith, Solas.”_

_“Was it not you that. hours ago, comforted the pilgrims of Haven with such similar words? ‘Faith is all we have.’ I hope you’ll hold some for a little longer. I will see you on the mountainside.”_  

_“Andraste protect us all...”_

  

It was the ache in his back and knees that woke him. Propped into a kneeling position, hands chained in front of him, it wasn’t the throbbing headache or the pain in his hand that brought him conscious but the cold ache of limbs gone numb. He grunted, and Aedhin shook his head to try and hold back the panic that sputtered up in his stomach.

This was a prison cell. Five armed Chantry soldiers stood around him with swords drawn, not more than eight inches away from him. He sucked in a slow breath, and shuddered. _What did I do? How did I get here? This must be a mistake..._

Aedhin swallowed but his tongue felt like sandpaper. He looked around, but the soldiers wore thick helms that covered their eyes. They did not move as he tried to find an answer in the walls around him, an explanation, anything, in the dark.

The last thing he remembered...a fight with Rodhain in the courtyard after being pulled back to Ostwick. They weren’t mad about the relief effort, or even the enormous cost of building the library, but he was furious that Aedhin helped a group of mages secure passage out to Ferelden. Yelling, threatening, _how could you be caught disgracing the family like this...should have convinced father to send you to the Templars!_ Rodhain, face etched in stress and anger, the very picture of their father before he retired from the family estate years ago. Aedhin, wistful and charming, possessed by wanderlust, a pariah among the family and yet mother’s favourite. It always came down to that. _You think you can do anything because you were mother’s favourite!_ ...and then a long journey through northern Ferelden? He wracked his mind for the answers.

Sure, he’d pushed the boundaries plenty of times, picked a few bar scuffles and gambled here and there, and maybe he had looked the other way when the mages needed to slip out of Kirkwall, but he’d never _technically_ broken the law, certainly not to warrant this, especially not from the Chantry...why had he left for Ferelden? The south barely held charm for a Marcher to begin with, cold and isolated and lacking the kind of debauchery and fun only a city could provide. And especially with the Templars and Apostates at war, no one wanted to travel there. If he was looking for new horizons it made more sense to travel west to Orlais, or even north to Antiva...

“The conclave...?” Aedhin’s green eyes darted around the cell, pupils blown wide in a panic. “I needed to get to Haven, for the Conclave!” 

As if by invocation, his left hand lit up the room suddenly in a bright, sallow light, and pain exploded up his arm and behind his eyes in bright stars and he doubled over the shackles. “What happened to me?” he wheezed, but not a single soldier moved or spoke. The door to the cell swung open then as his hand crackled and glowed, and light from the torches outside filled the room. Two figures strode in and as his eyes adjusted he realized they were two women. More soldiers stood at the ready beyond the door.

“Why shouldn’t we kill you now?” Armed with a sword and voice thick with a Nevarran accent, the first woman circled around him.

“Kill me?!” Aedhin snapped his head up to the speaker, who he realized immediately was the Right Hand of Divine Justinia. He’d seen her once before, at a distance, in Kirkwall. “Why would you kill me?” He glanced quickly to the other woman. He didn’t recognize her but if this was the Right, she might be the Left. Aedhin couldn’t believe this was all for letting a bunch of child-mages out of the city on a caravan, what a load of--

He doubled over as the hand let off another spike of magical energy. Through the pain he glared up through his bangs at the Seeker. “What the fuck did you do to me? What is this?” he demanded, “Do you have any idea who I am?" 

Before anyone could stop her she had him by the collar against one of the walls. “Divine Justinia is dead. No one in the Conclave survived the explosion. Except for you, and your magic.” She brought her face closer to his and lowered her voice. “Do you think you can deceive us into thinking you have no idea what is going on?”

“Dead? What are you...” Aedhin’s shoulders dropped as he processed her words. “W-wait, everyone? All those mages, and templars, and nobles? All of them are dead? H-how?” He stared at her, slack-jawed, but all he could remember was seeing the snow-capped mountains in the distance and thinking he should have defied Rodhain and gone north instead... 

  

_“Is anyone out there?” he called, as green smoke swirled around his feet. The sky, red and black and brown, seemed to know no end. “Anyone?” There was only silence and the echo of his voice. Should he stay? Should he move? Aedhin rubbed his temples, which throbbed, and began walking straight ahead._

_He glanced back some hours later to the sound of a child’s giggle and a series of small screeches. Three spiders, large, impossibly so...the size of a carriage!...approached him. Razor-like claws clicked against the broken stone of the ground. More red eyes filled the space behind them._

_Aedhin ran._

_A hand up the pile of debris ahead, beckoned him, he grabbed on, begging her not to let go--_

   

“What happened?” he asked, interrupting the second woman as she tried to pry the Seeker away from him, “The last thing I remember...” Both stopped, stared at him. The woman in the hood raised a delicate, thin eyebrow. Aedhin dropped to his knees.

“The last thing I remember were monsters pursuing me and a woman pulling me out of the debris. I swear. That’s the last thing I remember after crossing Lake Calenhad...” His voice cracked as he trailed off. Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he remember?!

“A woman?” As if this somehow made sense, the red-haired woman nodded. “We should calm down, Cassandra,” she said, the very picture of calm herself. “Solas believes he can help. We will use him. The truth will come soon enough.”

Cassandra turned back to Aedhin with a sneer. “On your feet, prisoner. I will show you, and that will have to suffice.” She stormed out, a hand placed casually near her sword. “I will meet you at the forward camp, Leliana. Gather who you can.”

The guards took away the heavy steel shackles, but bound his wrists together with a thick, damp rope. Their kindness mirrored Cassandra’s as they shoved him out of the prison cells, up the stairs and out of the Chantry into the grey light of the day. He looked to the sky and his breath caught in his throat. A wound in the sky itself, impossibly huge, bled over the mountains in bright green light. In the distance, he heard shouts, screaming, explosions. The smell of fresh snow and burning flesh permeated the air, even here to the Chantry, and he stumbled back against the door. 

“Maker,” he cursed, “What in the hells is that?”

“That,” Cassandra began, as she turned back to him with her furious, accusing stare, “Is the Breach. After the explosion, it shone through the smoke, a tunnel into the Fade. It has spit and sputtered demons upon us ever since.” As though on cue, the Breach flashed brightly as streaks of green shot out from it. Aedhin’s left hand pulsed back and he fell to his knees, breathless. “As the Breach grows in strength, so too does your mark. It is killing you. It almost has already.”

“I’m dying?!”

“Perhaps,” she replied, so matter-of-factly that for a moment Aedhin almost forgot the pain and the bindings and wondered if he could kick her down the side of the mountain.

“So that’s it. I got fucked up with this and it’s my fault there’s a fade-hole in the sky?”

“Leliana is correct, we do not know the whole truth.” Cassandra hauled him up. “But there is a possibility this strange mark can affect the Breach as the Breach affects you. We may be able to stop this." 

“After that charming introduction?” Aedhin laughed, a sour sound that echoed across the settlement. “Sure. Why not. What do I have to lose?” Was it the stress? Hunger? The cold? Whatever it was, this felt like a joke, a nightmare. Maybe he had to reach the end to wake up at home where none of this could ever happen.

“What?” She seemed shocked at his willingness.

He shrugged her off of him, and looked up toward the Breach. “Tell me the way, oh great Seeker Cassandra.”

She regarded him carefully at first, and gestured for him to walk ahead of her through the village and toward the gate. Some of the civilians threw more than sneers and dirty looks his way; some threw debris and kicked snow after him as he passed. They all thought he did this. For a moment, Aedhin’s heart sank - what if he did? But he pushed the thought away. He was a good person. Reckless maybe, just a little, but he was not a murderer. And he was Andrastian! He’d never take arms against the Divine.

As they climbed the mountain path out of Haven, Aedhin realized these soldiers did not belong to the Chantry. He’d seen the Inquisition symbol once or twice in Kirkwall before his brother called him home, soldiers searching for answers in the aftermath of the explosion at the Chantry and the mage revolt under Garrett Hawke. He assumed they were a branch of the Chantry looking for mage refugees, or the Champion himself, to answer for the damage. He never thought twice of it when he left the broken city for home.

After some time, Cassandra walked next to him instead of behind him. At first, he flinched, expecting some reprise or forceful action like she’d taken down in the prison cell. Her gaze remained ahead of them though, strides long, confident, and even; her hand resting calmly on the pommel of her longsword as a steady reminder that she was, firstly, a well-trained warrior, and secondly, most definitely in charge. Although he recognized her face from watching her march into Kirkwall two years ago looking for answers, Aedhin realized then she did not look nearly as battle hardened as her reputation preceded, baring only the most minute of scars on her face and a small nick behind her left ear. The armour had seen some wear but the quality was impeccable and she walked as if it weighed nothing at all. She very nearly matched him in height, and he held no illusion that she could best him even at her worst. Fearsome, but not frightening, Aedhin imagined that in other circumstances he’d probably have invited her home. No doubt, with her rigid expression and piercing gaze she’d certainly turn him away, but, he laughed in his mind, that never stopped him from doing stupid things before.

Twice more, the power of the Breach roared through the magic mark on his hand, and both times he collapsed under the pressure and pain, vision doubling, barely breathing. Cassandra was markedly less rough during both pulses, helping him to his feet, even putting a hand on his shoulder to encourage him to keep moving.

Hungry, and shaken with pain throughout his body, Aedhin did not ask Cassandra for clarification on the Inquisition’s presence as they approached the first bridge. As his hand pulsed in time with the Breach’s onslaught of demons, Aedhin wished he’d fled to Rivain as a teenager when he’d had the chance. How many people were supposed to be at the Conclave? Thousands? His breath hitched as one face came to mind. She was supposed to be at the Conclave, representing Ostwick’s Circle. The tranquil left behind to clean the mess said she’d be here, with the First Enchanter. He tried to swallow the wave of grief. Eyes forward, feet moving.

“Was I really the only one who survived?” he murmured, slowing to a stop near the gate of the bridge.

“Yes,” she said, voice much calmer, and she crossed her hand over her chest in acknowledgement of her faith. “Some are saying that Andraste herself pulled you from the Fade and dropped you in front of the Inquisition soldiers.”

“Andraste’s a bitch,” he muttered, and turned away from Cassandra. “Better people than me deserved that chance.” Aedhin cleared his throat and didn’t give her any room to reply as they began across the bridge. As the Breach pulsed again, demons screamed to life in a tear beneath them.

The bridge exploded in the middle.

Ears ringing, body aching, and for what felt like the hundredth time that day-- Aedhin was on his knees gasping for breath in the snow. But his hands were free, somehow. The singed ropes fell from his wrists.

“Stay behind me!” Cassandra ran sword first at the monster ahead of them, a ghastly thing shrouded in moulding fabric and wisps of dark, hazy energy. He could see no eyes, but oh, could he see teeth.

Between them, the ice hiccuped green and for a moment he saw a reflection in the Fade, another demon...and then the demon was there, reaching...!

Scrambling backwards, his fingers brushed against metal, the hilt of a dagger, two daggers...

With the blood pumping in his ears Aedhin jumped to his feet and dove under the clawed hand, striking forward with three slashes where the arm joined the body. As the arm fell away he rolled around it and drove both blades in a single strike into the creature’s back. It screeched - that same, awful screech from the memory! - but as the bile bubbled in the back of his throat the demon dissipated into smoke and was gone. Aedhin turned to the other fight, where the other demon, much larger than the one he’d just killed, struggled against Cassandra’s attacks.

“Cassandra!” Aedhin flipped the dagger in his hand, counted her footfalls: one, one, one-two, thr... And threw the dagger straight through the gap in the demon’s hood, at the same moment Cassandra slashed diagonally across its body. As it too faded into smoke, leaving behind a wisp of rotten fabric, Aedhin skidded across the ice and reclaimed the blade.

“Well that was exciting--“ he began.

“Drop your weapon. Now.” In that moment Cassandra had put several feet between them, and turned her sword at him.

“...are you actually, seriously...”

The moment stretched for what felt like forever, her cold and dark gaze challenging him to defy her orders. “Fine,” he said, turning the handles toward her and gently easing to the ground. “We’ll do it your way. I’ve always dreamed of the day a tall, dark, and handsome woman would protect me from certain peril.”

With an agitated sound, almost as if she contemplated a curse word, Cassandra sheathed her sword. “No, you are correct. You came here without argument and have been forthright thus far. I cannot expect you to approach demons with no weapons when I cannot promise to protect you.”

“The dream waits on,” he fake-sighed, flipping the daggers into his belt. “So...up the river to my doom, then?”

“There are more demons here, but there is another path to the forward camp,” Cassandra explained as they climbed the bank to the trail, “The fighting will get worse the closer we get.” She made no acknowledgement of his attempt to laugh off the situation.

“Who’s fighting?” he asked, slowing his gait.

“You’ll see when we arrive,” she answered cryptically, and Aedhin couldn’t decide if she sounded pleased or pissed off.

Hours later when they finally met with the fighting at the gate, he decided it must be the latter. Joining the fray was easy enough; he slipped in like a thought with the borrowed daggers glinting in what little light broke through the clouds. He barely paid a thought to those fighting around him until the elf he defended from behind grabbed him by the wrist and shoved his left hand toward to the tiny rift in the center. To Aedhin’s shock, as the mark forced the rift shut, it did not hurt as much as he expected. Rather, it didn’t hurt at all, and he stared at the apostate as if he were a prophet.

“How did you do that?” Aedhin asked, the first to break the silence of the group in the aftermath of the fight.

“I did nothing. The credit is yours, and the mark on your hand. All I did was test a theory.” The elf nodded toward him. “It’s remarkable that you even lived, let alone still have the strength to make it this far. I am Solas.”

Despite the seriousness around them, Aedhin cracked a large, sincere grin. “Well I can’t say I got here all on my own. I did have Lady Tall, Devout, and Imposing guarding my back.” Cassandra scoffed and the dwarf standing next to her burst out laughing.

“Here I thought for sure there’d be no reason to bring a pen and parchment up the mountain!”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed back at him, “This is not the time for jokes, Varric!”

The dwarf walked past her and extended his hand to Aedhin, who took it in a firm handshake. “Varric Tethras. This is Bianca,” he said, gesturing to the crossbow on his back. “Now, shall we continue this little suicide pilgrimage up the mountain? I’m getting a little tired of being rained on by demons.”

“Suicide pilgrimage,” Aedhin repeated, “Sounds about right.” He glanced at the apostate, and down to the dwarf as Cassandra called out orders to the soldiers behind them. “My name is Aedhin.”

He walked away as Varric and Cassandra argued about who would continue up the mountain to the camp. The rift paused the pain, but only for a moment, and the burning, throbbing sensation came back full force once he caught his breath. He climbed over the broken bridge rail to the path below. Should he have introduced himself? Did it matter? Aedhin wondered, tuning out the conversation between Cassandra and Solas, debating the nature of the Breach. He locked eyes with it, looming over them, above where the Temple of Sacred Ashes used to be. Even if he sealed it, they said the mark was killing him. Who cared who he was? With a sinking feeling, Aedhin looked about the snow, the corpses, and the burning rubble.

At the forward camp, all they did was argue.

“But the prisoner must--“

Aedhin snapped back to the moment, eyes narrow. “Let’s get one thing straight, Chancellor,” he said, stepping forward, suddenly angry, inspired, “My name is Aedhin Trevelyan. Son of Bann Trevelyan. Of Ostwick. I’m neither killer nor traitor and if you want my help you’d best learn quickly.” He leaned forward, Marcher accent thick on every word, bright green eyes boring into the frightened ones of Chancellor Roderick. “You will absolutely address me by my name or by my title. Is that understood?”

Aedhin turned to Cassandra and the two men behind her, not waiting to hear the Chancellor’s response. If they were shocked by his sudden flare in temper, they did not show it. He held up his hand, sparking with energy.

“We’re taking the shortest, fastest path. Lead the way, and let’s get this over with.”

He squared his shoulders, exhaled, and walked past them across the bridge. By the time they met the soldiers, his breaths came laboured and shaking. His body ached, especially his left arm and shoulder, for it felt as if something were drilling through his wrist and up into his body. He said nothing to the light-haired commander who relayed his report to Cassandra, who wished them the best before helping an injured soldier back to the tents. Aedhin swayed on his feet, and as they approached the ledge down toward the temple Solas placed his hand on Aedhin’s back. There was the warm sensation of magic, restorative, soothing, and he felt the strength return, just a little, just enough to keep forward.

And then they were there, staring at the Breach, and the large rift that tethered it to the temple.

“I told you I don’t remember,” he muttered to Cassandra’s next round of accusations, as voices echoed from the Fade across the shambles of the temple. He never broke his eyes away from the rift.

All around, the red crystals jabbing from the earth and the temple walls hummed, begged for attention. Aedhin stumbled past them, until he was right underneath the rift. 

 _Maker’s mercy,_ Aedhin thought, _This can’t be it. I don’t want to die like this_.

He extended his hand and the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my buddy Danjor helping me proof and give me some feedback on the characters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He comes from the sick place,” her friend warned, shoulders drawn in close. “If you go you will be consumed, fire, fury, sacrifice. He will not be stopped by you, by anyone, not today.”

_“He comes from the sick place,” her friend warned, shoulders drawn in close. “If you go you will be consumed, fire, fury, sacrifice. He will not be stopped by you, by anyone, not today.”_  

 _“Who?”_  

_He looked up at her, light eyes through too-long blond bangs. “Older, older than me or you. You should run, while you still have the time. I should not like to find you in pieces, like charcoal, soot on the bad crystals. Go now!”_

  

There was no one in the room when she sat upright in bed, in a cold sweat. The first enchanter left before the dawn to head into the Conclave. She left a note for Kiaran in the tent, instructions on when she’d return and where to meet her after the first day of talks. What to expect, how long the Conclave with the Divine should be. Still dressed in her traveling clothes, Kiaran gathered her few belongings, dried rations, and a cluster of lyrium potions in metal vials the enchanter left behind for her. Her staff was propped against the tent wall.

‘ _He comes from the sick place_ ,’ echoed her friend’s warning from the dream, ‘ _Run while you still have the time._ ’

The sun had barely begun rising. Her friend, the ghost in the Fade, met her once before in Kirkwall. He didn’t lie. He saved her from the Chantry before the explosion. Told her of the man hurting and hurting, carried by angry spirits to realize his dreams. She fled and hid in an alleyway across the town, shivering in the night. The next morning, a mage, a _friend_ she’d known named Anders blew up the Chantry and catalyzed the war that would ignite across Thedas.

“Maker, if you’re out there, forgive my fear,” she prayed, and staff in hand, took off running away from the direction of the temple. No one would listen - the Templar recruits left behind to wait in the snowdrifts tried to restrain her as she warned them to leave. Breaking free, she didn’t stop running until they were long past her. Past Haven, feet and fingers numb with cold, she ducked into the tree line and crept along the path to the gateway that led toward the Hinterlands to the east. The sun was almost fully risen over the mountains now. Breathless, her legs ached, guilt swelled in her, she knew, and no one would listen, no one would know-- 

Through the gate, alone, briskly walked a young man with long ears and tattoos on his face.

“Don’t go that way,” she begged, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him back, “Something awful is going to--“

A blast echoed out from deep within the pass, drowing her voice. The two were thrown off their feet into the wall of the gate. Kiaran cracked her head hard against it, and fell down with spots in her eyes as green glowed through the cloud of smoke and sundered stone. In minutes, flames licked above the tree line where the Temple of Sacred Ashes used to stand.

The elf pulled himself to his knees, saw her, the streak of her blood that smeared down the side of the gate, now dripping out of her ears. As the shrieks of demons filled the anguished cries of the people in the pass, he reached out to her, hand glowing blue.

For a moment, the ringing stopped.

“Miss?!”

Kiaran slumped into him as he pulled her into his arms. A second blast exploded from the mountains, and the elf pulled her into the shelter of the gate as more fire erupted in the pass.

“ _Ma lasa ghilan!_ ” was the last thing she heard before the snow poured down around them.

 

* * *

  

In the early light of the dawn, a young Dalish man with light skin and dark hair sat near his companion, stitching back together the sleeve of her coat. Besides his fingers, he sat absolutely still, eyes moving up from his work now and again to glance around the trees and bushes of their camping spot. They were not far from the borders of the Hinterlands, just outside the mountain pass on the far western road. This had been their longest stop since fleeing the Frostbacks days earlier, the first stop where they hadn't been beseiged by bandits. Curled up next to him, Kiaran slept hard with deep, slow breaths, small hands clasped in front of her face.

Luindir finished sewing shut the last rip in her coat sleeve, and tested the seam with a few tugs, before gently setting the garment in his lap. He tapped the vallaslin on his lips, thanking June for blessing him with the supplies and skills to mend. Until they found a safe space to stay for longer than a few hours, there was little he could do to clean the bloodstains in their clothes, but at least he could mend the tears. Still, they had a full night of peace. For that too, he was thankful.

“ _Sa’vunin...ma serannas, Mythal_ ,” he murmured, barely a sound in his breath as the sun broke over the east horizon. Luindir looked down to Kiaran, and a barely-there smile ghosted across his lips to see the dark circles under her eyes had receded, at least a little. He noticed too, though her skin had seemed so transparent when they left Haven, injured and cold, a flush returned in her cheeks and a dusting of tiny brown freckles showed on the tip of her nose. For the first while, he’d wondered if she was actually sickly, for she looked so close to collapse after the massive head wound she suffered in the blast. In the eight days since the hole erupted over the Temple of Sacred Ashes, neither had slept for more than three or four hours at a time. Convinced the templars would use the explosion at the Conclave as justification to continue hunting mages, Kiaran wanted to get as far away from the Chantry’s reach as possible. Alone, elvish, and teeming with magical energy, Luindir agreed.

In Redcliffe, the mages held a home and stronghold safe from the Templar witchhunt. And while Luindir was dubious to how they expected to hold strong as the war grew bloodier, he didn’t deny that for now, that might be the safest route for them. As it stood, in the chaos following the Conclave, he didn’t imagine being able to safely make his way back to the Marches anytime soon. Kiaran, who said she’d come from Kirkwall, made it clear she had little intention of returning north. 

Although reluctant to rouse her from a peaceful sleep, the more the light grew, the greater the danger. Luindir brushed a hand through her hair, calling her name softly so not to startle her. “Kiki...”

She scrambled upright anyway, reaching for her staff lying next to them. “Have they found us?!”

“No, not yet,” he said, resting his chin on one hand. “But we should set off soon. The forest may not hide us in the light.” Luindir stood then, and held her coat up for her. “The holes are mended. Did you rest well? How is your head?”

“Luin...thank you. I’m okay.” She took the coat and carefully pulled it over her arms as he took his cloak from the ground where she slept, dusted it, and tossed it around his shoulders. This became their routine - he almost laughed at the thought, a routine for apostates! - as Kiaran took the rations from her bag and separated for them a light breakfast. Stolen fruit, stale bread, cheese.

“We’ll have to hunt smart, or hope we come across another abandoned house,” she remarked between dainty bites. “I hate to steal but if no one is there to eat it...”

“I spent some weeks studying ruins in this forest before heading west to the Frostbacks,” Luindir replied with an encouraging smile. “There is plenty of game to hunt, and a remarkable amount of roots and fruit to be foraged. Provided we can avoid the conflict on the King’s Road, it should be no trouble.” Though he tried to sound encouraging, the explanation did not put Kiaran at ease and if anything, she glanced around more furtively. Today, her hazel eyes showed more green than before, and he hoped it was a sign of her health returning.

“Did you sleep at all, Luin?” 

“Not yet, _Da’len_. Perhaps tonight,” he said, still smiling. “When my clan and I traveled through difficult lands, we took turns to rest, to guard the aravels. I am not fatigued yet, but my heart is warm for your concern.” 

Kiaran sighed. “If you’re sure...I just don’t want you to...well, there might be fighting...”

“I swear on the creators that you will be the first to know when I need to rest.”

He finished the last of his share of the food and began to roll away their few camp belongings. What would Keeper Deshanna say, seeing him soothe and reassure a young shemlen mage as they fled from the Chantry’s reach? Well, it didn’t matter much - she’d been half the reason he still lived now, and Luindir considered himself at least somewhat open to the path the creators laid before him.

“It’s...sort of stopped now, right?” She stared up at the hole in the sky, calmer now than it had been in days.

“It is calmer,” he agreed, tying off their belongings and hoisting it over his shoulder, bladed longbow in hand. “As for its nature, we may yet know. Has your friend come to tell you more?”

“Nothing since that day,” Kiaran said, and shifted uncomfortably. “I sometimes wonder if he…well, let’s keep moving. Make as much ground as we can before the conflict reaches Redcliffe. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Luin said nothing, but nodded, and took the lead as they continued south toward Lake Calenhad. Every crunch of leaves, every small critter in the underbrush that moved made Kiaran’s breath hitch. Under his bare feet, Luindir felt mostly calmness in the soil. Near them, there were no soldiers, not yet anyway, not that he could feel vibrate within the earth. He wished he could explain to Kiaran the peace he felt in the ground; not to encourage a lack of caution but a gentleness of mind to reserve her energy and help her to focus. A day earlier, Luindir had tried to convince her the path he led her through had not yet seen the blood of the Mage-Templar war but she would hear none of it, insisting that if not now, then soon enough, and she would be ready.

For a girl so small and under-nourished, Kiaran showed a remarkable fortitude of character. At first glance, she was unimpressive, with bony cheeks, narrow shoulders and hips, and soft hands, hands that had never toiled. Her thick dark hair, a shoulder-length mess of uncombed waves, was knotted haphazardly at the base of her neck, but she stood with a straight posture and a level stare. The staff she carried dwarfed both her hand and her height, but she held it fast like it was a limb of her own. Anxious and skittish as she was, she displayed no lack of certainty when it came it making choices and she trusted her first instinct with absolute confidence. Additionally, she did not fear the Fade, and in small ways she reminded Luindir of his clan’s Keeper in her stoic approach to magic and its secrets. In another life, perhaps, she might be one of them.

They escaped the wrath of the Conclave explosion, barely, and within hours of recovering from the resulting avalanche she asked if he heard of the mage stronghold in Redcliffe Village. _“They’ll already have a plan, or need to know what’s happened, and it’s the best place we can be until this calms,” she insisted, “That’s where I’m going. Did you want to come? Or if you don’t, I understand, we only know each other’s names but we’re both...well...enemies of the Chantry for the same reason...”_ More remarkably, as the days passed, even in combat, she never doubted him as many shemlen did, did not cast the shadow of suspicion over him, and looking back now, she’d been the first to ask him for his name, not the other way around. She learned it without tripping over the pronunciation, and initially he wondered if she were actually blind to his ears and vallaslin.

“You’ve called me da’len many times now,” she said suddenly, breaking him out of his thoughts. “I know a few elvhen words for artefacts that were kept in the Circle but I’m ignorant of the language. What does that mean?” She tilted her head slightly to the side, round eyes wide and curious for an answer.

“Ah, hmm...” Luindir hadn’t expected her to ask. “Elvhen does not translate directly, the way you understand something like Tevene to the common spoken between the Free Marches and Ferelden. I suppose it’s a protective term? It means young one, or small one, not always like a child, perhaps like a student? Charge?” He frowned as he tried to find the right word. “I can stop, if it bothers you.”

“I’m not that young, compared to you,” she defended, though no offense rang in her voice. “I’ll be twenty-three this winter. But I’m not bothered, not really. I just was curious." 

Luindir laughed. “So you aren’t,” he agreed, “Have I said other things to make you curious?”

“Well, I don’t know any elvhen,” Kiaran admitted, “So maybe all of it?”

He laughed again, louder this time. “When we arrive in Redcliffe Village, I can teach you more, if you’d like.” For a moment, he swore he could feel the clan’s ire at his openness, but he shook it off. Baby-faced shemlen as she was, she wasn't stupid, and he welcomed her questions and innocent curiosity. Knowledge shared, knowledge gained. It endeared her to him in a way he hadn’t expected, and being able to teach her about his people gave him reason to continue his travels in the south.

“That might be interesting. Maybe I can learn to read it one day, too. There were books once, in the Circle tower, no one ever touched because no one could read them but maybe if I ever found them again...” She trailed off and her voice wavered. “Well, it’s good to know things. The world beyond the Circle is enormous.”

“Indeed it is,” Luindir said. “So much is lost in the violence of difference. I’m glad you look to see beyond the tension. More shem, and many more Dalish, could learn this.” He climbed carefully down the broken rocks of the cliff edge and extended his hand to Kiaran.

“Be careful here. The stones are loose. Step only where I step.”

At first, she paused, slender hand curling against her sided. She looked down the slope, treacherous and steep, catching the fullest light of the morning sun. There was no illusion of the result of a single misstep. At the base of the cliffside, though, a thick line of trees followed the trail to the main road. Perfect cover for a couple of apostates. Kiaran took a deep breath, and slung her staff to her back.

“I trust you, Luin.” She took his hand, and climbed down one ginger foothold at a time.

He laced his fingers with hers as he guided her down. “Do not ever doubt that it is returned.”

At the base of the cliff, Kiaran’s knees buckled and she dropped to the ground. Luin still held fast to her hand and kneeled down next to her. “Can you walk a little further, Kiki?” he asked, in a gentle, quiet voice, the same voice he used when they pushed out of the rubble of the explosion. “We’ll be better sheltered to rest in the trees.”

“I just...need a moment. I didn’t think it would be that,” she paused to find the word, “stressful.” Her breaths were hard and laboured, but she let him help her up, leaned into his side when he wove an arm around her middle. She’d lived on the run for years in Kirkwall, and yet slipping bit by bit down the edge of a cliff seemed more taxing than all of the last few years combined. Half leaning into Luindir, they made their way slowly into the treeline and settled behind a large, old thing with a broad trunk and tall branches. Luin stood over her as she caught her breath, ever watching the movement in the forest. She sighed, and looked up to him, wondered where his patience came from and why he was still helping her. If he felt her stare, he gave no indication.

Kiaran had known many elves between the circles. In Kirkwall particularly, many of the mages were elves from the alienages or those left behind by the Dalish clans passing the city. Luindir, though, had different colouring than any of the elves she’d seen in the Marches, with fair skin and eyes like an afternoon sky. A bit of a sunburn crept down the back of his neck, from his hairline where he kept the sides and back of his head neatly shaved. The tattoos on his face, a dark, nearly black-blue, only contrasted his light colouring more. His eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled but his face otherwise showed no sign to betray his age. Near his right ear, Kiaran saw a flurry of small scars hidden in his undercut, but seasoned as he seemed, it did not show on his face.

“A party of men approaches nearby,” Luin said, breaking her thoughts. “We should continue with caution. Can you stand?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, getting to her feet. “We should avoid anyone on the way to Redcliffe. Everyone’s gone mad down here.” Her steps were sluggish and slow, legs still weary and shaking from the climb, and though they tried to avoid the party Luin had seen a distance away, they were still spotted. Protectively, Luin placed his arm around her waist again.

“Who goes there?” one called, “Are you templars?” His accent was thick, and the words tumbled awkwardly as he called out to them to step forward. 

“He’s a Dalish,” one of the other men said, also not Ferelden, “They’re not templars. Are you mages? We’re heading to Redcliffe!” He stepped ahead of the group, dressed finely in battlemage armour with a jeweled staff on his back. His hair and skin were both dark, and he wore a finely clipped moustache and beard. He approached the two without hesitation, palms turned outward.

“ _Tevinter_ ,” Luindir muttered, and the uncharacteristic hiss in his voice made Kiaran’s skin crawl. 

“Maybe it’s fine,” she said, "They're not attacking..." But to reassure herself or him, she didn’t know. She gave the slightest curtsy to the stranger when he dipped into a flourishing bow.

“Iverian Llerin, _formerly_ of the Imperium.”

“Kiaran.” 

“Just Kiaran?”

Her smile stretched tight. “Just Kiaran. We came from Kirkwall to the Conclave but...”

“We all know what happened there,” Luindir finished, tone clipped. “What brings you this far south?”

Iverian chuckled, and motioned his two companions closer. Both of them also carried jeweled staves and wore beautiful woven robes beneath shining armour, bearing the same crest as Iverian. “Little bit of a minor spat in the family,” he explained, “And my brother hired the Antivan Crows to do us in when we tried to report his black market deal to the Magisterium. Ugly business. Thought we might fare a little better here now that the mages are gaining some ground down south against your templars.” 

His voice was soothing, a deep baritone that never lingered too long on a single word. Kiaran placed her hand over Luindir’s. “I suppose politics are the same no matter where you go,” she said. In truth, she understood the predicament better than she cared to share. Though isolated, the political power struggles of the Marches were also rife with corruption, murder, and brutality. Kiaran had lived it. She sympathized.

He half-smiled, an edge of smirk to the left side of his mouth. “So it seems. Bit less frilly than they do it in Orlais, at least. Does your handsome companion have a name?”

Luindir half muttered something in Elvhen, before addressing the magister. “You may call me _Lavellan_.”

“Are you from Wycome?” he asked, tone growing excited again, “We passed through there on our journey south, to throw off the Crows. Lovely spot! Traded some goods with a fellow there by the same name. Group of fellows actually. Different tattoos but I won’t pretend I know about how that all works. Guarded folk, but the best healing salve and rope I’ve ever seen.”

Luin did not reply. Kiaran bit her lip, “Did you say you were headed to Redcliffe?”

“Why yes, darling. In this war with the Chantry we’d like to throw our lot in with Grand Enchanter Fiona. Give her some pointers on how this mage rebellion can be best handled. Would you care to join us in our travels?” Iverian’s dark eyes softened slightly with his smile, and glinted just the barest hint of mischief. “Ah, but where are my manners? I understand if you’re uncomfortable, please don’t feel obligated. A young lady might feel intimidated, but worry not, our passions are...elsewhere. I’m, how would you say...not quite interested in the world of the body, and these two,” he gestured to the two young men behind him, “are enraptured enough with each other, if you are so concerned.”

“Crossing the King’s Road might be safer this way,” Kiaran said to Luindir, looking up to him. His grip on her tightened, and she pressed her lips in a line. “We don’t have to, but I’m just worried...”

“I trust your judgement,” he said, “Avoiding any battle would be preferred. The Dalish have never held good company with anyone from Tevinter. But...” He took a deep breath and tried to bring his encouraging smile back. “I will try to be...understanding.”

“Splendid, that solves that!” Iverian turned and confidently began back toward the path on the road. “Much stronger united than split apart, I say!” The other two mages followed with him, introducing themselves as Desidius and Romaris. Romaris kept up the banter with Iverian but Desidius, a tall, brooding looking man, focused his energy on watching the area around them.

Eventually, Luin withdrew his hold on Kiaran as they followed the chatty Tevinter southward toward the village, but he walked close enough to brush his fingers against hers, footfalls far more careful than before and his blue eyes dark and suspicious. To Kiaran, Iverian seemed straightforward enough, if not foolish with his loud voice and careless personality. He didn’t fit the tall, villainous, corrupt idea of the Tevinter she’d been warned about her whole life. Definitely Tevinter though, in his garish dress and bold pride of his magic. Still, she reminded herself, this was just a partnership to get to Redcliffe. The apostates were better off together than picked off one by one by the rogue templars.

She reached out and took Luin’s hand. He glanced at her, gave half a nod and squeezed her fingers gently. He spoke again in Elvhen but she didn’t catch the words. Iverian glanced back at them with a warm, welcoming grin, and at least for the time, Kiaran felt a little safer than she had in days. 

Luindir gripped her, almost to the point of pain, and did not once let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen sourced from both in-game recordings and Elven DAI Translator at lingojam.com/ElvenDAI.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how he prayed, the situation remained the same in the morning-- frightened, hopeful, complicated.

The first several weeks following the attack on the Breach blurred together.

Aedhin slept for three days straight, albeit fitfully, under the watch of the alchemist Adan and the careful observation of Solas. When he woke, the sun shone high in the sky and Haven bustled with people building, organizing, helping. Confused, and exhausted by dreams of the Fade, he stammered awkwardly as he tried to reassure the elf girl looking after him that he had no intention of harming her.

As he followed her fleeing to find Cassandra, the noise stopped, and everyone stared as he stumbled out blinded into the snow. Most of the pilgrims and remaining townfolk were Ferelden, and they whispered more of his Marcher origin than the chatter of awe that he survived. In a matter of days he’d gone from villain to victor, and anytime he spoke the people seemed shocked that this exotic man with tanned olive skin and dark hair was so easy to understand.

Herald of Andraste, they called him. He was Andrastian, yes, of that there was no question. But her Herald? Initially he insisted, no. He was unworthy. As Leliana explained to him, sometimes it was best for the people to have something they recognized as a symbol to unite them. He acquiesced to the title and tried not to cringe when someone called out to him with it. As he was introduced to the key players of the Inquisition, he learned none of them could agree on what the title meant. That suited him just fine.

The first few days, he stuck close to Cassandra, who defended him staunchly from the Chantry dissidents, until the Inquisition was officially announced, and his face became known around the camp. After the first while, the novelty of his background and appearance wore out, and the whispers stopped. He ventured further around the town to bond with the refugees that came to support the Inquisition. The first few interactions were uncomfortable, until he met a pair of sisters that he helped out of Kirkwall a year earlier. Their support and excitement put many more of the mages that had come at ease. Soon enough, people lingered near his cabin to start the conversation with him first. Commander Cullen commended him on bringing everyone together, and thanked him for helping to boost the morale.

The marked hand, for the most part, did not hurt at all. 

As mages and templars both flocked to the Inquisition in search of leadership, answers, and most importantly, hope, some tensions rose. Where Cassandra’s temper threatened to burst forth and ignite the trepidation between the opposing sides, the calm, inspired voice of the Commander broke through the terseness. After the first conflict, Aedhin joined him, and it became routine by his fourth day moving about to join Cullen in his rounds around the camp. Starstruck by the impossibility of the everything that happened, Aedhin became determined to counter his own ignorance wherever possible. When Rodhain tasked him some months ago with representing the family at the Conclave, Aedhin was sorely misinformed of the reality of the war.

The gravity of the remains of the Conclave shadowed his every step. At night, he spent long hours shivering at the edge of the lake, now nearly completely thawed, silently begging the Maker for answers, for strength, and for wisdom. No matter how he prayed, the situation remained the same in the morning-- frightened, hopeful, complicated. By the seventh day, he turned to Solas for answers to his questions about the Fade. How to get in. How to get out. And more importantly, what Solas’ friends on the other side saw in the Breach. The more the Inquisition saw the Herald with the apostate, the less they sneered at the elf, and a few stepped forward to also build a friendship with him.

Some conflagrations were less easily quelled, no matter what approach Aedhin took.

“If you call me ‘the prisoner’ one more time Chancellor Roderick, I will personally throw you out of Haven to the Maker’s mercy,” Aedhin warned, voice decidedly cooler than when he’d first confronted the cleric up on the mountaintop. “You may, at your discretion, call me by name or do not speak to me at all.” In a statement of regal challenge, he crossed his arms gently across his chest.

“How dare you--!”

Commander Cullen stepped in with an arm extended. “This is the Inquisition, not the Val Royeaux Chantry, Chancellor. We are all here united with the Herald to restore order and address the Breach. Everyone here will treat each other with respect, regardless of where we have come from. Must I repeat myself _again_?” The taut note in Cullen’s voice could not be missed.

A crowd gathered, mixed of pilgrims, mages, and templars. When Cullen spoke, the crowd silenced, and Roderick was left fuming.

“Now all of you, back to your posts. There’s plenty of wounded that need caring for and work to be done on the village, the barracks, and the siege equipment. If you can’t offer your expertise there, you’re to meet Ser Rylen and practice the drills with the other soldiers. Go on, get on with it!” he called out to the crowd. After a few minutes of murmurs and several salutes from those wearing the Inquisition’s crest, they all dispersed back to their assignments. Roderick, defeated for the day, stormed off toward his tent, muttering about heretics and justice. From across the courtyard, Leliana watched the exchange with an amused expression before she turned back to her reports.

Aedhin sighed and pushed a gloved hand through his hair. “If he put all that energy to good he might actually see the change he wants in the world.” 

“That’s an accurate assessment of all those idiots bubbling out of Orlais,” the commander said with a roll of his eyes, “I’m surprised the mages of Montsimmard haven’t found a way to harness all that nervous clucking for something more productive.” The two shared a laugh, and walked inside to a welcome burst of warm air from the Chantry. Several mages standing near Researcher Minaeve bowed their heads in welcome.

“I have some ideas I’d like to run by Cassandra and Leliana,” Cullen said as Aedhin stopped in front of Josephine’s study. “They know the situation of the south a little better than I do. When we receive word back from our scouts we’ll call you into the war room to decide what needs to be done first. The situation in the Hinterlands grows more dire by the day.”

“I haven’t been to Ferelden since well before the Blight,” Aedhin confessed, hand on the door. “And even then, we never traveled further than Denerim. I trust your judgement on it. Stabilizing the south will only help sell our cause to Orlais.” The two men nodded at each other, and Cullen left for the Chantry entrance.

Aedhin hesitated before the door to the study, feeling rather small beneath the high ceilings. _Herald of Andraste_. The title still made him uneasy, for many reasons, not the least of which were his colourful curses on the day they assaulted the Breach. Every morning, he apologized as he stepped out of bed, hoping whatever blessing let him survive this far would continue and forgive him for his angry lash at the Maker.

Josephine looked up with a tiny, welcoming smile when he opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Herald,” she said, standing. “I hope this day has been slightly less eventful than yesterday.”

Aedhin gave a chuckle. “No fistfights between recruits so far. How are you faring?” He pulled in the chair on the other side of her desk and sat down across from her.

“I am well. Cold, but Cullen assures me with our supplies secured this will change. I regret not bringing a second set of furs with me across the mountains.”

“Cullen’s a man good on his word,” Aedhin agreed, “But you asked me to see you about some letters?”

“Yes,” she said, sitting again, and pulling a tied stack up from the drawer. “I’d like to discuss your family, first and foremost.”

Aedhin leaned forward across the desk and grinned. “Lady Montilyet, I’m flattered, but I should warn you, marrying into the Trevelyans involves a large degree of winning arguments by who can yell the loudest, and in my opinion you are much too fair to be subjected to that.”

She gave him a dour stare. “Please be serious, Lord Trevelyan. We can hardly afford to be flippant.” She pushed several letters forward. “Your father writes concerned for your safety. Six times, to be precise.”

Aedhin frowned and reached for the first letter. He glanced quickly at the script before tossing it aside. “My father didn’t write this. Rodhain did. There’s no way my father has the strength to write this much in such a short time.”

“Oh...I had no idea. Forgive me.” Josephine dipped her head in a small bow before standing, candlelit clipboard in hand. She paced the room, tiny heels clicking against the stone floor. “Truthfully, the letters do ask of your well-being, and if you truly saw Andraste in the Fade. They also ask if you’d like to transfer your ownership of the...library?...in Kirkwall during your ah...’stay’ in Ferelden.”

Aedhin heaved a sigh and leaned back in the chair, covering his eyes with his hands. “I was halfway to the Maker, and Rodhain wants to wrangle my one thing out of my hands. Piece of sh--“ He stopped himself mid-curse, always feeling guilty speaking savagely in front of the ambassador. “My brother is anxious about what I might be doing where he can’t see. Write him back that I’m fine and that all affairs for the Kirkwall Library remain exclusively under the power of myself and its curator, Lochlan Selve. I’ll write it myself if I have to.”

Josephine scribbled her notes for several minutes, then began to pace again. “The relations with your family have become more strained as the years have passed, then?” she asked, voice quieter.

“Since we last saw each other? You wouldn’t believe,” Aedhin sighed, “My father’s health has been declining since Mother passed away, as you knew. When the twins were sent off so soon after, it got worse. It’s only the Chantry that keeps Father going. Rodhain handles all of the family affairs in Ostwick. Etain and her husband live in Antiva and manage all the merchantile business from there.”

“I had forgotten about your younger siblings,” she said, stopping midstep, “Have you heard from them since...?”

“No.” His eyes hardened. “My brother died at his Harrowing and my sister was sent to the Conclave.”

“Oh...I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-“

Aedhin shook his head. “At the end of it, Rodhain heads the family now, as he has for the last nine years. If we want anything from the Trevelyans, Rodhain will expect to gain tenfold for Ostwick. Etain might be easier to persuade, she’s Andrastian to a fault, and she helped me fund the library when I went to support the relief effort in Kirkwall. The other branches...my father’s aunts and his cousins, usually support Rodhain. He’s pragmatic, ruthless, and protects the interests of Ostwick first. He knows what he’s doing to keep the Marchers on his side.” It took a great deal of effort to swallow back the bitterness. His last argument with Rodhain still felt fresh in his mind.

“Well, that’s easy enough,” she said, with an air of complete confidence, “Your Great Aunt Lucille did send a remarkable gift of coin and cotton to the Inquisition, so I will be sure to pay her compliment indeed when our next visitors arrive from Orlais.”

Aedhin watched her finish her notes, court smile in place. He thought back to when he’d first met her --how old was he then? Fourteen? It had been over two decades, since that first summer retreat when the Montilyet family became a part of the Trevelyan’s extended circle. He recalled that for the first eleven or so years he’d ignored Josephine and her sister Yvette almost entirely, until he and her brothers had gotten into an unfortunate spot of trouble with a bottle of brandy and a treasured family rug. A young Josephine, then maybe seventeen and freshly armed with her budding Orlesian education, charmed his parents and their family with a tale of a raven determined to steal the crystal stopper, and Aedhin’s careful planning to retrieve the stopper without taking the bird’s life. She'd made it sound so romantic, his mother repeated the story several times throughout that summer.

In truth, the boys had gotten in a fist-fight over the attention of a noble girl from Starkhaven and though Aedhin lost the fight to her oldest brother, Josephine suggested covering the blood with spots of brandy and letting her tell the story to keep them all from trouble. In the end, the Starkhaven duchess ended up marrying a close cousin of hers and the fight was considered a draw. After that summer, when their families got together for his great aunt’s summer retreat, Aedhin mostly followed Josephine in an attempt to learn from her charms, despite the tight-lipped disapproval for the eight year gap between them. With no marriage intent in sight, his mother warned him more than once to behave like a knight and not a prince. After she died, Aedhin stopped going to the parties, and not long after, found his entertainment far from his noble family.

“Are you listening, Lord Trevelyan?”

“Huh? Oh, no, sorry, Josephine.” He sat up straight, cleared his throat. “And please...just Aedhin. We’re friends, right? Lord Trevelyan makes me think of Rodhain, when you say it.”

She nodded, and settled into her seat again at the desk. “I will note this. Would you like me to tell the others?”

“Everyone but the Chancellor,” Aedhin muttered, “He’ll be thankful one day it was me and not my older brother that Andraste shoved out of the Fade." 

“That brings me to the next order of business,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard the quip, “The Chantry, Orlais, and Ferelden have all written asking for the Inquisition’s official stance on what happened after the Conclave.”

Aedhin looked back at her and batted his lashes. “What’s going to upset them the most?”

“Aedhin!”

He put up both hands. “Fine, fine. What would you say? What do you believe, Josephine?” 

For a long while, she was quiet, staring thoughtfully at her hands. “If it were up to me, Aedhin,” she began, “And you must know that I truly believe this, that Andraste saw in you what we needed to fight this evil. I believe she delivered you to us, that the Maker also believes you to be the hero of his bride, and for that, he walks with you to lead us back to order.”

“That was...awfully serious,” he said.

“I-I hope it doesn’t trouble you!” she stammered quickly, sitting straight.

For a moment, Aedhin paused. When the Conclave exploded, Josephine had been halfway to Haven from Orlais. She would have arrived in the wake of the devastation to hear her childhood friend was on the brink of death. In her position, he supposed he also would have put all his cards in the Maker's hands.

“...You carry yourself well but this horrified you, didn’t it?”

She was silent, which he took as confirmation.

“Tell them Andraste saved me, but leave it at that,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk, “and let the actions of the Inquisition confirm the rest. The peace we establish will speak louder than gestures in ink.”

“A fitting answer, given the precariousness of our situation here in Haven,” she finally replied as she wrote his answer down.

“And the lack of detail will give Rodhain more greys. Do you think...maybe Val Royeaux will give us a castle?"

“Ahh, if only,” Josephine sighed, “Haven, for its place in Andrastian faith, is fitting, but...”

“It’s cold, ugly, and the only reason it’s defensible right now is because no one in their right mind wants to march an army through the snow to take it,” Aedhin finished flatly, leaning again against the back of the chair. “Fereldens are insane. They live in this place...on purpose!”

To this, the ambassador laughed, and rose to her feet. “It’s comforting to hear this from someone else. If there’s anything you can think of that we need that Cullen and the quartermaster cannot obtain, please don’t hesitate to ask. I will do what I can to make this...as liveable, as possible.”

“Your company makes it easier,” he said, also standing, smirk widening to one side of his lips. “If you care for some cards later, you should meet Varric and I in the tavern. It’s much warmer than the Chantry. I think he'd like your tales. I've already half-convinced the Commander to give it a go.”

“I will...consider it.” She walked him to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve much to prepare for our next guests. They’ll be arriving any day.”

“I’ll be sure to be far off when they arrive,” he teased, ducking under her annoyed swat as he stepped out of the study. Josephine shut the door behind him, thinking a moment before she returned to her desk. She stared at the paper, wondering if he’d be upset if she asked Leliana to do some research. Josephine tore off the names from the bottom of the page and folded them in her pocket. Aedhin risked his life for the Inquisition when it very well looked that he’d be hanged if he survived. They could spare a scout or two to look into this. If not because he was the Herald, then because he was her friend.

If the supply requisition arrived as planned, he’d be leaving soon with Cassandra to the Hinterlands, anyway.

But how he’d changed in the years since they’d last seen each other! It felt as if he were taller, more rugged than before. Back then his appearance was always clean cut, near perfect, except for his crooked smile. Now, his hair had grown out around his face and he had a fine shadow along his jaw, a handsome scar across his lower lip. He behaved still as the charming prankster she’d known to greet her every summer, but he carried a weight in his voice she’d never heard before. He shared little of what changed in the wake of his mother’s passing and the twins being sent to the Circle, though she knew he traveled frequently across the Free Marches. She also knew he led a group of his family guard and local tradesmen to Kirkwall after the fighting calmed. Finding out about the library from Leliana and the letters had been a surprise, especially because she knew nothing of its curator. A library in a broken city seemed a strange choice but she remained faithful that he would share if she only asked.

According to the letters from Kirkwall and Ostwick, despite being somewhat of a pariah in Rodhain’s eyes, the locals, and the peasants especially considered him a local example of true Marcher nobility. Most of the infrastructure progress in Ostwick had been projects spearheaded by Aedhin that Rodhain used for the family’s social credit. The other nobles among the Marches regarded the eldest brother as the ideal head of family. To Josephine this indicated that, like many others, their explosive, private affairs remained hidden far from public consumption.

Still, as the days passed, she half expected to find him with a bloodied nose laughing with the soldiers half drunk, cards spilling from his hand and Marcher victory songs ringing across the camp. And while the men certainly spoke to his brawdy humour and genuine encouragement with the Commander, no notice of poor behaviour came across the ambassador's desk. 

Her sister Yvette also wrote to ask about him. These letters the ambassador decided to leave unanswered. Let her sister fantasize on her own.

Josephine placed more logs in the fireplace and settled down at the desk to write.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra waited near the armoury for Cullen to finish his supervision of the training drills. As the commander approached her, she noted he looked healther than she’d seen in months. There was an easiness to the way he walked, rested his arm on the hilt of the sword at his side. She hoped that meant that the withdrawals were subsiding.

“You asked me to meet you here?” she asked once he stood with her. Both turned to watch Rylen drill the soldiers again.

“Yes. I’ve spoken to Leliana on where we can begin building support for the Inquisition. I wanted to petition Denerim first but she feels the Hinterlands would be more appropriate. There’s a cleric there that wants to see the Herald.”

“The worst of the war is on the King’s Road,” Cassandra agreed, “Many farmers and tradesmen that have made their home under Calenhad’s Foothold have lost their homes, families, and livelihoods. If we want King Alistair’s attention, we must put his people first.”

“As I thought. I’ll deploy troops there in the morning to try and safeguard at least the Crossroads for the refugees. If we can stabilize the area, at least the Herald can meet with this Mother Giselle without risk of his life.”

“Was that all?” Cassandra turned to Cullen. “You seem...brighter.”

“It comes and goes, but we’re not getting any younger,” the commander answered, avoiding her eyes. “I’m resigned to take each day as it comes. Today, it comes easily.” 

“You will be fine,” she assured him, for the umpteenth time since she petitioned him to join the Inquisition as its military leader.

“Hm. I will try to match your faith. Regardless, I actually wanted your opinion on Lord Trevelyan, as well.”

“He irritates me.”

Cullen chuckled. Varric couldn’t keep the Herald’s constant teasing a secret, and Cullen's evening routine began to include a pint of ale with the controversial Herald, just to hear the stories. Cassandra rolled her eyes.

“But,” she continued, “He has approached the gravity of each task with the utmost seriousness, and more piety than I expected after the way the Chantry cast him aside. Josephine has vouched for his character, and our people like him enough. I trust the Maker, and thus I trust the aid he sends us...even when that help's commentary is largely inappropriate.”

Cullen nodded, but couldn't help laughing again. “Fair enough.” The two stood, watching the soldiers across the plain of snow for a while longer before, without another word, they stepped away from each other and returned to their obligations.

  

* * *

 

A loud crackle and bright flash of light erupted as the rift over the ravine closed by the mark on Aedhin’s hand. The demons, ever chained to it, disappeared in a screeching _poof!_ as the rift disappeared. The river flowed fuller, as if it had never been interrupted. From over the hill, the bleating of druffalo echoed across the clearing.

“Closing them is becoming more instinctual now, isn’t it?” Solas asked, a sliver of a smile across his face.

Aedhin sat in the river stream, throwing his head back in exhaustion. “I can’t believe how many of these there are,” he whined, “Can’t we come across a demon of laziness?” Covered in blood and demon ichor, and aching from shoulders to toes, at first he refused to move after sealing the rift. With the farms less than afew hundred yards away, sealing the two rifts in the area took precedence over hunting the demon wolves plaguing the farmers. It took them less than two hours to clear both. His joints ached, and his mind burned.

“Must you always complain so much?” Cassandra put her hand on her hip. Her armour and the dark blood of the Terror glinted in the sunlight. Under one arm she cradled her helmet, also spattered with blood and Maker knew what. Her face was clean and untouched as she stared unflinchingly down at Aedhin.

Aedhin squinted up at her. “You’re a vision of disastrous beauty and gore if I ever saw one. How exactly do you manage that?”

“Incorrigable!” she huffed, and shot a vicious glare in the direction of Varric, who snorted. “We can rest once we have made sure these farmers are no longer in danger!”

Aedhin plopped back into the water with a splash, and let the icy cold stream wash over him. “Three minutes and I’m back on my feet. I promise.”

“We could stand to rest a little,” Solas offered, squatting next to Aedhin. By some miracle, he had only the smallest of spatters on his clothes. “If these wolves are possessed like I believe they are, it might be worth it to catch our breath.”

“The Herald is _tired_ and would like to personally file a complaint with the Maker for this ridiculous situation he’s put the Hinterlands into,” Aedhin said, staring up at the clouds, eyes half lidded as if he meant to doze.

“You know, I’ve tried that approach and never got an answer.” Varric chuckled as he reset the crossbow on his back. “You let me know if that helps all the crazy shit you keep getting into.”

Aedhin exhaled deeply, but otherwise did not move. The stream felt soothing and even the ache in his knees didn’t seem so bad. After a final count to twenty, he groaned and pulled himself back on his feet, ever under the Seeker's heated stare. 

“You’ll catch pneumonia constantly splashing about like a fish every time we find a source of water,” she said, as they began the climb up the bank.

“Either I’m running a fever or this mark is hot as hell.” Aedhin looked at his hand. “Every time we close one of those I feel like my whole existence is on fire. How stupid would I be to run into the next one shirtless?” This time, he grinned at her exasperated sigh.

“You’re not a mage.” Solas climbed up behind him, staff in hand, unfazed by Aedhin’s crass suggestions. “Your body is not used to the magical strain from the mark. It may take time yet before it stops fatiguing you.” He observed Aedhin for several minutes as they walked before he turned his attention ahead to their destination. “You look well enough, but keep us informed if you feel worse. Your humour in the situation, however, is a pleasant indication of your health.”

“Solas thinks I’m funny,” Aedhin pointed out to Cassandra, who did not respond. Rather, she stopped abruptly in front of them and edged to the side of the cliff wall. She nodded ahead, where several wolves gathered to chew the meat off of a number of torn up carcasses. The largest one laid next to the carcass as he ate.

Varric stepped forward, a bolt loaded into Bianca. The lightning enchantment glowed along the outside edges of the crossbow, flaring to life when he fired the shot at the big one. The wolf made no sound but dropped dead into the remains of animal it was eating, the bolt lodged almost entirely between its eyes. The other wolves scattered first, then realizing where the attack came from, ran full tilt toward the party. The narrow bank could not hold a fight, Aedhin realized as Cassandra darted forward. Under a cloud of smoke, Aedhin and Varric rolled in opposite directions to flank the wolves as they surrounded Cassandra.

Behind them, Solas whispered in Elvhen to summon spikes of ice.

With a mightly clang, Cassandra bashed the head clean off one wolf with a hard swing of her shield. Using the momentum from the attack, she spun around on one heel to slash at a wolf that leapt from behind. _She can’t be real,_ Aedhin thought as he followed Varric’s example and buried a dagger to the hilt between the eyes of the wolf that lunged at him. Cassandra yelled a battlecry in Nevarran as she cut down another. Three wolves lay dead around Cassandra, a fourth shattered in pieces of ice, and the fifth bled out cold through several knife and bolt wounds.

The last wolf, injured, yelped and ran off into the caves behind them.

Aedhin twirled his blades upward and out, advancing slowly. The exhaustion was written all over his face and he panted heavily. The others came up beside him and they stopped at the mouth of the cave. Aedhin growled.

“If there’s a rift in that cave, I quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition needs more friendships...a prelude to future mead-inspired shenanigans? An alternate title I considered for the story was "How Is She So Powerful And Fast, This Is Only The First Level"


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a hunter, an elf learned to wait, and wait, and wait more, before anything interesting came his way.

“ _Ma serranas_ is...gratitude, right?”

Luindir nodded. “An expression of thanks.”

Kiaran scribbled it in the small tome she carried. He watched her as she wrote, and thought he could watch her use the pen for hours and never tire of her beautiful handwriting. The book was halfway filled with notes, sketches, and maps, each page written margin to margin with teeny-tiny, flawless cursive. Kiaren’s lines were straight and perfectly spaced. She wrote like a scholar. When she spoke of the Circle she came from, she said it like the memory itself was poison, but he thought at least there was something to these Chantry-run towers if they educated on such a fine art as script. In an aside to his thoughts, Luin wondered if he'd ever find the time to learn to sweep ink on paper like that.

“You say that often, in the morning. To... _Mythal_?”

“And to June,” he agreed, “Mythal is the mother goddess that protects the elves from those that would hurt them. June is who we call the Craftmaster, and I thank him for my talents to mend, and to make.” He pointed to his face. “The _vallaslin_ I wear are a symbol of June. It is his teaching that calls me. In the stories, June taught the elves how to carve, to weave, to fletch, and to smith, so that under the guidance of Sylaise, we could hunt, cook, and flourish and build our homes. Among our clan, we know June as the energy of creation, and created himself as companion to Sylaise when she shared her home with us.” In the corner he watched her quickly sketch the lines of the tattoos. Fingers coming to a bridge under his chin, Luindir turned slightly to the side so she could see the details that wound around his temples and down to the bridge of his nose.

As she finished the drawing, Kiaran pursed her lips. “It upsets me...so much...that the Circle had nothing about this. Even books of the Avvar were available to everyone!” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Most of the mages in our Circle were elves. Half of them were escaped from slavers sailing in from the north.”

“The Tevinter Imperium and the Exalted March in the Dales demolished most of what was left. Even among the Dalish we carry little written record,” Luindir explained, face dropping a little. “I want to one day see a world where we share the same spaces in enough peace to grow united against the Blights and the evil of the world, without the Chantry censoring our struggle. Keeper Deshanna has tried to build a similar relationship among the shemlen near our home. If only more thought to ask questions, instead. We might yet have the solution to the wound in the sky.” He became quiet again as his thoughts wandered, eyes lost in memory.

Kiaran looked back down at her knees, pulled into thought. She hoped the hole in the sky wasn’t a sign of a Blight. She was barely twelve when the last one started, and she remembered when all the refugees fled Ferelden for the Marches, watched them beg for work and shelter in the streets. Later, in Kirkwall, she learned many of the refugees defected to the Qun as the Marchers turned them away. When the Qunari occupied the city, their few human converts were Ferelden, now that she thought back. Looking around Redcliffe, though, if she didn’t know better, she’d never guess the village had been a key position in the Blight before Alistair took the throne in Denerim.

Remarkably quiet given the battles happening just miles away, Redcliffe sat nestled in between the protection of the higher cliffs of the Hinterlands and a waterfall that fed into Lake Calenhad. By some luck they managed to avoid all of the templars on the road, and picked up more apostates fleeing from the east to the village. When they arrived, Iverian and his partners left to find Grand Enchanter Fiona. Kiaran and Luindir found shelter instead with an elf woman helping to heal the wounded that fled from the King’s Road. Kiaran helped her to make poultices while Luindir slept, his first full rest in days. Later that afternoon, the gates to the city rolled down and entrance was barred as a series of massive explosions echoed from the Witchwood nearby.

That first evening, when the mages and refugees settled back into their homes, Kiaran breathed a sigh of relief in the silence and curled up next to Luindir on the floor. Neither woke until the next afternoon. They fell into a sort of rhythm after that: waking with the healer and eating together at first light, then as Luindir put on a brew for them Kiaran cleaned and organized the home, separating herbs and flowers from poultices and potions. As the healer left to check on her charges, she left a list of errands that the two divided between them until the end of the week, when there was nothing left.

The Tevinter mages stuck close to the center of town, and slept in the Gull and Lantern's inn. Iverian seemed happy enough with the situation, but his partners seemed disgruntled with the living conditions and the small breadth of the village. After the second day, they entered the tavern and never came back out, but rumour in the town was that they traded information with the Grand Enchanter and remained inside to protect each other from defectors.

Now, as the healer finished her rounds on the wounded in the makeshift infirmary up the hill, Luin and Kiaran had sat around her hearthfire in thoughtful silence until Kiaran asked him to teach her more of the words he muttered here and there to himself throughout the day.

The sun was nearly set when the healer stormed through the door and slammed it shut behind her, cursing under her breath.

“What troubles you, lethallin?” Luindir asked, standing.

“You’d think with her experience she’d think twice about this!” The elf threw her hands in the air before she set herself to grinding herbs at the table. “Hearing out those Magisters from Tevinter! She’s an elf! She knows what they do to elves in Tevinter! And what about the rest of us? The mundanes? Does she think they’ll not want their labour as well?”

“What are you talking about?” Kiaran looked to Luin, who wore no expression.

“Fiona’s pledging the mages to the Imperium!” she exclaimed, “As if she believes this will bring freedom to the mages! They’ll make slaves out of everyone that stands with her, mark my words! You should have never come to this city. Better luck throwing your lot in with that Inquisition in the mountains!”

Luindir put a hand on her shoulder. “It may not come to that. Tomorrow is yet to be.”

“What have you heard about the Inquisition? It’s only been a couple of weeks,” Kiaran pressed. She still felt the guilt of running away in the aftermath of the explosion, when the only person she’d been able to properly warn was Luindir. Even in her fear of the templars, she wondered if they should have stayed to help. She wondered every day. But still, what if the templars that saw her survived? What if they thought _she_ did it? Who would take her word over theirs?

“They’re taking in mages and templars! Some kind of peace, according to one of the Tranquil that came in from the Crossroads,” she said, still furiously grinding the roots in the bowl. “Not sure I trust anything led by a bunch of Andrastian-born shemlen but the Chantry declared them heretics. Says a lot about them, if you’re asking me.”

“That’s fair but...mages and templars? Together? Sounds like the Circle.” Kiaran crossed her arms. “Have they left the Frostbacks yet?”

“With the gate down we won’t hear from the Crossroads or the farms for some time,” the elf reminded her, “If you leave, you can bet they won’t let you back in. Best pick your side soon.”

“I might ask around for more information,” Luindir suggested, giving the healer a gentle pat on the shoulder before grabbing his cloak, longbow, and quiver. Kiaran pulled on her coat and chased him out of the cabin. Luindir paused on the steps, glancing around the village before he began walking down toward the harbour.

“Luin! All of the conversations have been at the Gull and Lantern...”

“All of the trade and commerce comes by boat right now,” Luindir explained, “If you want to hear about things you can’t see, merchants will guide you best.” He paused at the bottom of the steps to look back at her. “What exactly do you know of Tevinter?”

Kiaran stopped, looked at the ground. All she knew was what they talked about in the Circle, and what she overheard from slavers in the markets once she was freed. Luin, ever patient, waited for her with a soft expression. Kiaran crossed her arms and stepped to the side to let a group of workers pass by them. What did she know? She knew that mages were free. That most well-off Tevinter folk kept slaves. Magisters were responsible for the government, and status was based almost exclusively on magic and noble blood. Blood magic was rampant, far more accepted, far more ignored, than even in Kirkwall, according to what she'd been told. In ‘The Tale of the Champion’ Kiaran read about Hawke’s friend, Fenris, who escaped from Tevinter slavery. From a distance, she’d seen the elf fight the blood mages that turned on the Circle but anything about his past with Tevinter she only knew from the publication. When the Champion hauled her out of the burning infirmary he told her to leave and get as far away as she could. And Kiaran did.

“Nothing I know sounds like what I want,” she concluded.

“Then nothing I tell you will change your mind," he said, trying hard not to let his voice show the disdain he'd shown on their journey. The sun disappeared over the lake, and Luindir tapped his foot. “Go back to the house, Da’len. I will return in a few hours.” He turned away and rounded the corner with easy, confident strides. Kiaran stood for a few minutes longer in thought, chewing her lip and tugging at the hem of her sleeve before she took off back up the steps and into the healer’s house.

 

* * *

 

In the eastern wild of the Free Marches, the forests that separated the cities were vast and thick with creatures and beasts alike. Between the night prowling wildcats, the spiders, and the snakes, to the daytime boars and wyverns, traveling with a group of aravels was dangerous enough when human settlements were out of the equation. At night, more than the aravels needed protection. The halla invited all sorts of predators, and if the halla scattered, so did the curious children who wanted to stay near them. Scouting within a city could be just as dangerous. Even starting close to the alienages, all it took was one wrathful soul to spot the vallaslin and cry out in fearful ignorance. To walk near the shem, it always felt to Luin as to lurk among the worst of nature, but the trick to it was all the same.

As a hunter, an elf learned to wait, and wait, and wait more, before anything interesting came his way. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he might brush near a thinness in the Fade where the imprints of forgotten hunts and recently-dead civilians might advise him further.

Strangely, even with all these active mages and the Veil worn so thin, not a whisper or a impression passed him by.

Luindir settled in one of the thicker trees on the path between the Chantry and the tavern. A slight song of crickets filled the air and some rats skittered up from the pier, but Redcliffe in the night was otherwise still. The Tevinter magisters who traveled in with Magister Alexius returned to their boats in the evening, but Alexius remained upstairs with his son in the inn above the tavern.

A small carving knife in hand, Luindir worked away at a small piece of smooth wood he’d found near one of the docks, but his eyes never left the windows of the tavern. Some orders were given to the former Grand Enchanter and her close circle, who left two at a time to carry them out. From what he could see, Fiona looked worn, looked her age. For a moment it looked as if she might argue with the older magister, but backed away with a nod and then she too left. Luindir stilled his hand when she stepped out and looked out toward the Chantry path.

Her eyes looked past him, to the old stone building, and after a shrug of her shoulders she continued her way home.

One by one, the lanterns and torches in the inn all went out, except for the hearthfire in the tavern while the owner cleaned up. Luindir finished the tiny sculpture, a little halla like dozens he’d carved before. He tucked it into a hollow notch between branches in the tree and put the knife away in his belt. Still, he waited.

Two more hours passed and the only sound in the village was the soft push of the waves against the boats.

Then the inn door opened and out slipped the magister’s son, wearing a plain dark coat and hood. Six times, he glanced behind him as he made his way up the path to the Chantry. When the door closed behind him Luindir dropped to the grass, bare feet making just the slightest, softest sound as he did. Luindir padded noiselessly up the path, as if stalking for the keen ears of a northern wildcat. At the entrance, he gave a slight push. The Chantry door was still unlocked! He took a small vial of oil from a pouch on his belt and warmed a few drops onto the hinges before he stepped inside.

Only two candles flickered through the darkness, placed under the statue of Andraste. A man stood at the back, facing the stained glass windows. Luin moved into the shadowed space behind the far bench, and listened.

“Does your father suspect anything?”

“Not yet,” replied the magister’s son as he settled down onto the floor. “He isn’t saying much to me about it, either. They’re going to force out the non-mages and the Tranquil over the next few days. By tomorrow morning, the Arl’s castle will be empty.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense. Why on earth does Alexius want the dingy old castle of an Arl, in this sad pit in Ferelden?” The other man, a taller, older gentleman with a finely clipped moustache paced the center podium. “Seems a little far-fetched even by crazy cult standards. Has he said anything about why, Felix?”

“I don’t know yet, Dorian.” Felix sighed. “By now the Inquisition will have gotten the invitation in Val Royeaux. My father plans to stay put until he can assess the Herald. It might be better for you to find shelter somewhere else. More Venatori are on their way south.”

Both men fell quiet for a time, and Dorian paused to stare at the statue of Andraste before he paced the podium again. From what Luindir could see in the dark, he also wore the fine silks of the Imperium. The edges of his robes were embroidered in silver and gold, and the onyx buttons to his leather armour were set with sapphires that glittered in the light of the candles. A staff, which Luindir presumed belonged to Dorian, was propped against a table shoved to the far side. It was decorated in Tevene engravings and made of fine white wood, with a slender double-edged blade at the bottom and a smooth moonstone orb glimmering on the top. From what Luindir could guess, if this man wasn’t a magister, he certainly lived like one.

Dorian put a hand to his chin. “And you don’t think you can get that damned amulet off of him, can you?”

“Not a chance. Maybe a few years ago, but...”

“It’s alright. Don’t push yourself. I’ll figure something out. Hopefully this Herald can manage the rifts Alexius has caused by coming here. There’s one forming outside the town but there may be more soon. The veil is awfully thin here...I almost wish he’d just resort to blood magic. _That_ , I can counter.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Dorian. The thought hasn’t escaped his consideration.”

“I jest, I jest. Let’s not invite that angle to this disaster. I’m as powerful as I am handsome but even I have my limits.” He continued to circle the statue. “Until that gate goes up there’s no way to evacuate this city, either. Have you any thoughts on how we’re going to convince these people to go?”

Felix sighed again. “I don’t think they will, Dorian. Not based off the talks they had today.”

Luin crouched lower behind the bench’s shadow as the men debated. His mind raced. So this Magister Alexius had considerable power, and was forcing out the Arl? That didn’t seem right, especially since the King and the Arl had granted safety to the mages in the wake of the war. And he had some kind of powerful artefact that they wanted to separate him from. An ancient Tevinter magic, or elvhen, Luindir wondered. Getting out of a shem village like this was no problem for him. If the mages under the Grand Enchanter swore themselves to Tevinter that would be no business of his. He didn’t leave the narrow life in the aravels to end up a slave of the north. But Kiaran...he thought back to his companion. Skilled in magic as she was, she was no hunter and certainly no shadow. Even in the scuffles they had with bandits as they first approached the Hinterlands, she seemed reluctant to use her powers at all. If he convinced her to leave with him there was no guarantee she could slip out as quietly as they would need to, and if they couldn’t leave quietly, they might also not be able to leave bloodlessly. Two weeks ago he might have left her behind, but he enjoyed her company and could not imagine leaving her behind to fight a fate with Tevinter.

“I noticed the younger Llerin brother skulking around the village proper,” Dorian said and Luin snapped his attention back to them at the name. “They had a little scuffle over the family slaves in Minrathous. Did you know that?”

“We think he’s reporting for the Magisterium...the side pretending they don’t know what’s going on.”

“How cute.” Dorian sat down on one of the benches, draping both arms across. “How does Alexius plan to buy him off?”

“I think he’s going to try and win him into the Venatori, first.” Felix attempted to clear his throat, but collapsed in a fit of heavy coughing and wheezing. In seconds, Dorian was at his side, hands glowing with healing magic and helping to prop Felix upright. Luin recognized the wheezing sound, like dust in the lungs, from the alienage survivors the clan took in when the refugees fled the Blight. He pitied him. What a terrible way to fade.

“Go and get some rest. I’ll try to come up with something before the Herald arrives, in case Alexius changes his mind,” Dorian said as he helped Felix to his feet and walked him to the door.

In one movement, Luindir noiselessly drew an arrow and backed himself against the wall, waiting.

“Try not to exhaust yourself. I may need you if I end up in a tight spot trying to stop this mess.”

“I’ll be fine.” Felix’s weak, shaking voice indicated otherwise. “Be cautious, Dorian. We need to bring my father back to his senses. For his own sake, and everyone else’s.” At the door he stood on his own and began, at a slow, heavy pace, back down the path. Dorian watched him for several minutes before he shut the Chantry door and turned the bolt.

He turned to face Luindir with an enormous, excited smile. “Well then, my good fellow. It’s been some time since a good looking man stalked me in the night. How do you do?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedhin looked up from the table. “As far as they’re concerned, we have this situation under control and we’ll let them in on it, conditionally, after they stop letting their rogue runaways turn the Hinterlands into a graveyard.”

With most of the Hinterlands stable and the watchtowers underway for Dennet’s people, Aedhin and his companions stopped only in Haven long enough to gather what they needed to cross the pass into Orlais. Besides a handful of bears, the travel was blissfully uneventful and thankfully, rift-free. Although he kept it to himself, the tall spires and gaudy excess of Val Royeaux was a welcome sight to the displaced lord’s weary eyes. He’d almost forgotten what civilization really looked like, to be alive in a city rich with commerce and culture. But the wonder wore quickly, as he and Cassandra were met with a cold reception and blockaded from most of the city’s merchants and venues from the moment they crossed the gate.

All in all, the meeting in Val Royeaux could hardly have gone worse.

After a sarcastic throwdown with the revered mother (who seemed to know exactly which nerve to hit, and how hard), the intervening Templars and Lord Seeker Lucius humiliated him, and denounced the Inquisition in front of the crowd. Several civilians ran off crying heresy when the Grand Enchanter showed herself and invited him to meet her in Redcliffe, to discuss the position of the mages. A group of Chevaliers mocked them in Orlesian when they met with a soldier near a tavern for more information.

He almost started a brawl when, in perfect Orlesian, Aedhin fired back at them.

That night, they followed the cryptic instructions from a ‘Red Jenny’ into a dark alley, where the two were ambused by a band of mercenaries and the lord that hired them. They had help - sort of - from a bouncy elf that penned herself ‘Red Jenny.’ He barely understood a word out of her mouth but told her if she wanted to help, to meet them in Haven. She left giggling about breeches and small folk and he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Cassandra seemed to think so and they argued about it on their way back to the inn.

Their stay that night was sleepless, and Aedhin tried to convince himself bringing the uncouth Sera into the Inquisition was a smart move in the long run. Cassandra, worried about assassins, did not sleep, but rather propped herself up on one of the beds and took to polishing her weapons and armour. Aedhin tried to talk to lighten the mood, but as the two reminisced on the things they did as youths, both fell into a soured silence, and Aedhin set himself to writing Josephine as Cassandra doted on her sword.

When they tried to leave the city, a clean-cut mage wearing the robes of Montsimmard handed them an invitation, to the chalet of the illustrious Madame de Fer. _That_ night ended with a dead marquis and an alliance with Vivienne’s Circle of Magi. Another alliance he wasn’t sure he believed in, either, but the Seeker seemed please with the connection he'd made with Montsimmard and encouraged him to build similar bridges with other "good standing mages and templars." 

One of Leliana’s scouts passed them information as they prepared to finally head back over the Frostbacks:

The party sent to the Storm Coast was missing, and the coast was dotted with pirates and slavers attacking the locals. The Durelions family tried to oust the Inquisition from Haven, again, barely stopped by Josephine pulling a number of old records and threats from Denerim. In Kirkwall, someone was trying to frame Varric for a murder by plagiarizing and mimicking one of his earlier works. None of Leliana’s Grey Warden contacts could be found and no one had heard from the Wardens in months. The Trevelyans insisted they were ‘tied up’ with affairs in Ostwick but promised they would support any move of the Chantry in relation to the Inquisition. Josephine included a detailed letter that Aedhin’s niece, Rodhain’s oldest daughter, was relocating to Starkhaven where she was betrothed to the second son of a duke. _So it seems_ , she wrote, _that the Free Marches continue to reap the blessing of the Waking Sea between us_.

For the entire return trip, Aedhin sulked in the saddle of his Forder.

“I take it back, Cassandra,” he said one morning as they saddled the horses for another of travel through the pass.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, one eyebrow lifted.

“I much prefer cutting up demons and exploding fade rifts to all of the last week we spent in Orlais.”

She laughed, a deep, hearty laugh and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now to that, Herald, I can agree.” That night, when they settled in Haven, Aedhin found a bruise where she’d hit him. Thanking the Maker for safe travel and more pleasant company, Aedhin collapsed face down in his cot. For the first time since he woke with the mark in Haven, he slept without dreams.

Upon entering the Chantry in the morning, his four advisors were already arguing about choosing sides, and they hadn’t even made it to the War Room. The mages in Redcliffe, or the Templars in Therinfal? He turned on his heel and walked back out the door before they could say his name and did not stop walking until he was on the bridge far beyond the armoury and stables. He brushed off the frost on the thick cornerstone and sat with one leg hanging over the edge.

“Maker’s mercy,” he said, “How do I get them to look at the big picture?”

Like always, he received no answer. This Inquisition was accountable to a lot of people. Most especially those without power or fortune that pledged themselves to the cause. He believed there should be changes, to the Chantry, to the Circle, and to the Order. The mages’ isolation needed to stop, and they also needed to stop blowing things up when talks didn't go their way. The Chantry could no longer rule with ironclad immunity. The Templars needed to stop the facade that hunting mages was ‘protection for the people.’ Everyone needed to shut up and focus on the world torn asunder by the hole in the sky.

Alternatively, he had no magical strength besides this mark. Cullen was correct that enough templars could suppress the nature of the Breach long enough for him to close it properly. With no natural talent and no way to harness the power of the Fade, Aedhin stood a better chance of success with the templars backing the Inquisition, so that what meagre magic he commanded in his hand might close the Breach for good. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that honestly, morally, he should invite the support of the mages and prove to all of Thedas that this war could end, things could change, and it would all be for the best. Through the Inquisition, they might rebuild in his vision how the three sides might coexist.

Still, in this regard, Cullen was also right. Without enough templar-trained soldiers among them, too many mages was also a great risk. Even Vivienne, ever calculating, warned him that the situation could be become far, far worse without templar support. Abominations were a complication with a single, deadly solution that the Inquisition did not presently have the manpower to enact.

Many lives stood to end on their decision, one way or the other. The assumption that picking one side meant the Inquisition implicated the other in the death of the Divine also troubled him. He couldn’t explain it, but something nagged him that there was more to the Conclave explosion than a saboteur from one of the two sides. And if it were a betrayal in the ranks, why hadn’t Leliana discovered it? Secrets could only be kept for so long.

As the sun rose higher over the town, he turned his face away from the glare of the snow in the fields. Ignoring even his hunger, Aedhin continued to contemplate, one foggy breath at a time. After the noon sun began to dip, Solas approached the bridge with gentle, sure footfalls. He stood near Aedhin, watching him, as if solving a puzzle, before he spoke.

“Might I offer a bit of unsolicited advice?” When Aedhin shrugged, he continued, “If there seems no best course of action, it may mean you need more information. The Commander has a contact within the Order, and we have a contact within Redcliffe. Is it possible to call a ceasefire while we wait to hear from both sides?”

“That was literally the purpose of the Conclave and that ended in a lot of fire and a lot of death,” Aedhin said, frown deepening. “I’m trying to stop the war, not encourage it.”

“Perhaps I misspoke,” Solas said. “Don’t head to either direction with an army, and do not wait for theirs. Take a small party, enough to keep yourself protected, and find out what you need to know. This choice is not a light one, but the decision falls to you. You should make it when you feel confident you have the information you need.”

“And your opinion?” he asked.

"...I'm curious as to why you ask." Solas inclined his head just a little, eyes slightly narrower.

Aedhin shook his head and looked away. "I'm asking because I respect you and your experience. I'm not looking to argue."

"I apologize for coming across so suspicious." Solas looked out across the lake. “It is easy to make assumptions about groups of people. The mages have been oppressed for a great many decades under the Templars. They have also invited you, not challenged you. But the Templars are also many men like the Commander. They may be yet ignorant of how they can step away to truly fulfil the oaths they took. My instinct is to trust the mages. I am an apostate, and I would like to see a world where mages can exist as equals with the mundane. But my inclination should not sway your choice. All we know is that time is not a luxury. If you are to travel, you should leave soon.” He stepped away then and with a slight nod of his head, turned and headed back toward the town.

Stars dotted the sky when Aedhin returned to the War Room.

“No more arguing,” he said as soon as the door swung open. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. Especially not where the rest of the Inquisition can see us outside this room. The five of us need to at least look like a united front in our decisions.” He closed the door behind him and leaned over the table, where small wooden figures dotted the large map spread over it. He took a deep breath, avoided their gazes as he stared at the canvas.

“Josephine, you need to get in contact with King Alistair and find out why none of the Arls can keep control of their lands, why demons and bandits are running rampant everywhere we go,” he began, “And I want the financial ledger of every lyrium supplier from here to Nevarra. There’s no excuse to why the rogue templars and the bands of apostates have as much access to lyrium as they do.” Josephine scribbled down every word as Aedhin spoke. Cassandra watched, hands clasped behind her back, eyebrow quirked in interest.

“Meanwhile, Cullen is going to get every drop of information possible from his contacts in the Order. I want to know what they’re doing, who they’re waiting for, and why the Lord Seeker is so bent on hearing only from Orlais while he holes up in Ferelden. We give them nothing until I have answers to all of those questions.” Aedhin looked up from the table. “As far as they’re concerned, we have this situation under control and we’ll let them in on it, conditionally, after they stop letting their rogue runaways turn the Hinterlands into a graveyard.”

Cullen nodded, wordlessly.

“As for you,” Aedhin looked to Leliana, “I need voices in every major city across southern Thedas. Bards, scholars, soldiers, clerics. Whoever supports us, we need them to share the truth of what we’re up to. In Val Royeaux we had no one on our side, and that may well have cost us the Chantry support we needed to curb the bloodshed in this war. Partner with Sera. She knows people. I gave you contacts in Kirkwall. I expect you to use them. If this is Andraste’s will, the people need to hear her message.”

They all stood staring at him in dumbfound silence as he finished his instructions.

“You and I are going back to the Hinterlands, Cassandra,” he said after several minutes, tapping the spot on the map, “With Solas and Vivienne. We meet with Fiona. We hear what she has to say, and she’d better be prepared to share it with Arl Teagan. Any hint of deception and we’re out of there and straight on to the Templars. Everyone involved will understand one way or the other that the Inquisition is here for one purpose and our time will not be wasted. Whatever the Maker’s will, He will lead us to the allies we are meant for.” He exhaled, as if in pain, and crossed his arms. “Any questions?”

“Not at all.” The barest hint of a smile tinged Cullen’s words. “Our soldiers will be at the ready, wherever you need them. I’ll have Leliana send word to you when we’ve heard back from the templars. A small detachment will be sent in advance of you to the Crossroads to support the refugees, should the fighting start up again.”

The coyest smirk grew across Leliana’s features, an expression he’d never seen on her face before. It shook Aedhin at first, and it took conscious thought not to back away from her. “Consider it done, Herald. The nightingale will sing your song.” She was the first to leave, sauntering out into the darkness of the night. Aedhin bit his tongue to fight the chill she left in her wake.

“It will take me time to locate the lyrium resources you requested, but I have some favours I can call to expedite the process.” Josephine nodded her head and stepped away from the room, scribbling notes, almost walking straight into the wall instead of the door to her study.

“Well done,” Cullen mouthed to him as he stepped away from the table, proud smile now glowing on his usually serious face. Ser Rylen, who waited at the front of the Chantry, walked with him as he left.

Aedhin leaned over the table again, staring at the spots marked for investigation, where their army had been deployed, where Leliana expected news. Where the Breach stood over the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Cassandra continued to stand with him as he looked over the map, ever steadfast and straight with her arms crossed over her chest. Whether she wanted to speak, or wanted to hear more from him, he couldn’t tell.

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder. “Did I do that alright? Was that overstepping?” His heart dropped in his chest as the adrenaline began to fade. Did he make the right choice, or did he send their people off to be killed?

He expected admonition or irritation. To his surprise, she smiled.

“Your decisiveness and thoughtfulness is indicative of your natural leadership,” she said, “And you have again come to a solution without polarizing the issue. I am not offended, but impressed. I might have harshly misjudged you when this began.”

“Depending on who you ask, reckless idiot is a pretty fair assessment of my character.” He found himself returning her smile. “Care to join me for a drink?”

“Perhaps next time,” she replied, turning away. “There are a number of things I must check in on before we leave for Redcliffe. Goodnight.”

As he watched her go, all he could think of was that she didn't tell him 'no.'

 

* * *

 

Cullen leaned over the table in the war room, alone. Isolated in Haven, he felt helpless when they received word that contact with the Herald’s party was lost for two days. An extra deployment of soldiers left for the King’s Road that morning, but with mounting accounts of Avvar attacks in the Fallow Mire, and the continued assault from slavers on the Storm Coast, they were stretched thin.

“Maker, let news come soon,” he whispered, staring at the map until the lines blurred together. At the base of his neck, a migraine bloomed, curling and unfolding along the left side of his head. The war room was the only place of peace in the whole town, the only place of quiet, where only a select few could disturb him while he was here. He felt guilty for shirking his rounds, but Rylen assured him it was perfectly normal for a commander to be occupied with a greater task. _Greater task indeed_ , he thought. Down the hall, Josephine entertained some Orlesian or other, hell if he could remember the name, showing only the best of Haven and telling stories of their victories thus far. He marveled at her stamina in The Game. The very thought of entertaining cushioned rich families from Orlais made him sick.

What Cullen would give for a draught to put him to sleep, just for an hour.

Across the mountains, they received reports of renewed vigor in Gaspard de Chalons’ military expedition through the Exalted Plains. Josephine warned that continued agitation between Empress Celene and the Grand Duke would be detrimental to the Inquisition, over time. That she implied they should support Celene over the Duke seemed to Cullen the wrong approach. The added fact that this was considered a task of importance along with sealing the Breach angered him, but the worse the fighting got, ever closer came the reality that Gaspard’s war would spill into the Emerald Graves and then over into the Frostbacks. After that, it was a matter of time before all of Ferelden became involved.

And Ferelden was certainly in no position to defend itself in a run for the throne from Orlais.

His shoulders began to ache from leaning over the map. With a shuddering breath he forced himself upright, and ran his hands through his hair to try and settle the headache, the nausea, the chills.

It never helped.

To top it, guilt nagged his mind endlessly. The more he pressured his templar contacts to share more information, the more they lashed out at him. _Traitor. Liar. You watched us do it. We know what you did with Meredith. You should be here. You hate mages too._

 _I don’t_ , he thought, _Not anymore. Not after that._

While Aedhin put his life on the line to get them what they needed, Cullen couldn’t even extract the barest of information about how the templars got themselves holed up in Therinfal the way they did. The worry for their safety, the fear of failure. Cullen felt the breath catch in his throat. Silence meant secrets. What if they were caught up in an insane trap down there, blood magic, more than Cassandra or the two mages could handle? They needed the templars _now_! He felt the chains hanging from his wrists again, bars from every side...he just needed a little bit of lyrium...

“Commander.”

Andraste preserve him, Leliana’s voice cut through his thoughts like a cold rain in the desert. She rapped her knuckles on the frame of the door.

“I’ve received word.”

He whirled around. “And?”

She parted both hands. “Cassandra says the situation is bad. They’re returning as soon as they can. And they found a Warden.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Her writing was barely legible as it was.”

As Cullen exhaled, he felt some of the weight leave his shoulders. “Not great but, good enough. Let’s...prepare for the worst. Be ready to welcome them and get back to it as soon as they arrive. Can you call back your team from the Mire? We may yet need them here.”

“I have already requested they abandon the power struggle in the Mire for now. My instinct tells me that the Herald's party found something they shouldn’t have. Cassandra might have been worried someone would intercept my ravens.”

“Maker. I’ll talk to Threnn and Harrit. We’ll need more supplies.”

Leliana nodded, Cullen turned back to the table. Five days of hard travel on horseback from Redcliffe would bring them within sight of Haven. He took a final look at the figurine over Therinfal, and with a frustrated growl, left the war room, determined to find the answers.

 

* * *

 

Aedhin’s suspension of disbelief stretched far, in his opinion. He walked the Fade. Andraste pushed him out. Then he closed the rift that anchored the Breach, _and_ he didn’t die. He survived the ire of the Chantry in Val Royeaux, and even got the beautiful Vivienne to flirt back with him, unironically, during the travel south. He punched his fist in the mouth of a Wraith when it knocked his dagger away, and it _worked_.

As his limbs slowed to a crawl in front of the Great Terror beast that burst out of the Fade rift, Aedhin Trevelyan began to feel he was at his limit.

Moments later he was thrown so fast by the same creature, he heard himself slam into the metal grate of the gates a full five seconds before he felt it. He fell the ground hard on his side, and the mark sparked and flared as he tried to catch his breath. “Maker’s balls,” he gasped, reaching forward for his weapon as two Terrors flanked him.

Lightning rained from the sky, shocking them in place, at the behest of Vivienne’s outstretched hand. Aedhin tripped forward and stuck his left hand out to the rift. _This time, please, let it close...!_ A blast of ice from above the boulder nearby threw him spine-first back into the grate. Grey haze took over his vision as he tried to edge out of the onslaught, but the ice was so cold, so constant, and it burned! He barely realized it, but heard the agonized scream that ripped out of his own throat.

As he sunk to the ground, Cassandra leapt in two strides up the broken boulder and drove her shield in front of the blast, refracting it up into the wall of the gate. Her sword came down two, three, four times and the demon fell apart in a pile of Fade-cursed fabric.

“Protect the Herald!” she called down below, and leapt back into the fray. She landed, knee, foot, and sword into the back of a Terror. She bashed the back of its screaming head with her shield before slashing across its neck, bringing forth a pressured burst of thick dark blood. As its head fell off with a spluttering, tearing sound, Cassandra jumped forward on both feet, swiveled as she took off, and skidded in front of Aedhin to catch the hit of another Wraith that swung at him.

Fadestepping, Solas appeared next to them as Vivienne’s eyes lit up, and she summoned a storm cloud over the Fade rift. A few words in Elvhen and a barrier rose over himself and Aedhin.

“Can you stand?” he shouted, eyes glowing, fingers stretched stiff to hold the barrier as Cassandra bounded into the melee again, this time to defend Vivienne as she cast another spell.

Aedhin grabbed the metal grate, and hauled himself up on one knee, then his feet, one by one. A stabbing pain erupted in his side and he gasped for air. He fought the urge to shut his eyes as blood dripped down his brow, before he held his hand forward again, barely resisting the recoil from the magic that blasted from the mark.

This time, the rift finally closed, and its little puddles of warped-reality left with it.

Aedhin dropped a dagger and stumbled forward, gripping Solas’ narrow shoulder for balance as the other two came to them; Cassandra at a run, Vivienne at her ever elegant, courtly gait. Solas dropped his staff, barely able to hold Aedhin’s weight until Cassandra got there and pulled Aedhin’s arm around her shoulders. He dropped the other dagger, and hung his head.

“Are you injured severely?” she asked, and all three of them could hear her try to quell the panic in her voice.

“Broken ribs, maybe a few, maybe...all of them,” he half-joked between shallow breaths as he tried to stand properly. “What was...!” He coughed, hard, and spit out a frothy glob of mucus and blood, doubling over. His knees buckled, but Cassandra held him fast.

“Time distorted around that rift,” Solas said quietly, suspicious edge in his voice, “Whatever we are dealing with here, we may have come unprepared.” He touched the imprinted remains of the rift in the dirt, as if it might give him an explanation, but he frowned, obviously disappointed.

“So it would seem.” Vivienne put a vial of red liquid in Aedhin’s free hand and placed her own on the small of his back. “Drink this as I cast. We’ll reset the bones once we’ve found safe shelter.” He knocked back the thick syrup like a shot of liquor while the magic curled from her fingers, numbing the knife-like pain around his lung. For a moment, his eyes crossed, and his vision swam, until Vivienne pulled away. Up above, one of the city guards looked down from the gate.

“Are the demons gone?” he called.

“The hell does it look like?!” Aedhin snapped, leaning hard against the Seeker, struggling to bring himself to his full height. His light eyes lit with fury, and despite his weakness, the rage in his voice echoed far across the clearing.

“We’re here with the Inquisition. Now open the _goddamned gate!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps I will write a side story called "100 Ways I Have Romanticized My Inner Circle Tearing Apart My Foes" about my battle crushes on the whole group of companions in every DA game.
> 
> This was one of my favourite chapters to write so far. Aedhin was the first Inquisitor that I didn't play as an authority-hating rage bucket, so his dialogue has been fun to play around with. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and the views. I'm almost ten chapters ahead of where I'm posting so this one will be a long one, but I'm pretty in advance of my updates.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Every time I walk into a new Chantry, something tries to kill me."

When she launched his staff from his hands, she thought that was enough to give her the advantage, but he simply shrugged and continued to advance on her.

The sound wards remained steady across the walls and windows as he backed her into a corner, dark eyes glowering with power and fury, the only hint of expression on his face. Desidius had both height and weight on her and he batted her lightning strikes away from him as if swatting mosquitos.

_I thought we were allies_ , she wanted to scream, but the words caught themselves jumbled in her mouth and all Kiaran managed was a whimper as the back of her head hit the shelf. A tranquil skull rolled off and clattered on the floor.

"I can find plenty of ways to hurt you without ruining your best features," he promised, calmly, as if he were trying to tempt her from the corner. "You could have it all in Tevinter. Put down your staff. You have no power here." To make his point, he reached out and wrapped his hand around the dark wood, and pulled it away from her. His thick arms and fingers of corded muscle seemed not to notice as sparks poured out from the top. And then, as his eyes met hers, he gave a hard tug and ripped it from her grasp. He threw it behind him in the cabin and before she could pull the magic from her fingers, his hand wrapped around her throat and shoved her up against the wall, her toes just barely grazing the dirt floor.

Desidius began murmuring in Tevene and dark shadows simmered off his fingertips.

Kiaran tried to scream for help but it came out as a choked, wheezing whine, and she felt a sensation of cold creep from her throat, through her shoulders, and down her body.

She tried kicking, but he was like a man of stone, and then she felt a press in the small of her back. Her knife.

The next moment she'd remember as black spots and the sensation of drowning as her fingers closed around the small handle, and then the hard, fast arc as she shoved it as hard as she could, as high as she could reach. 

And then there was blood all over her fist, pooling out from his temple and his grip lessened on her.

Kiaran's fingertips exploded with lightning and the smell of burnt skin and hair flooded the cabin. The wards fell.

The magister’s body fell with a thud, dead. A few sparks of electricity crackled out onto the floor. Blood seeped from the wound in his temple, small little hiccups of dark, dark red.

Kiaran stepped back, clutching her knife with one hand and her neck with the other. When she was sure Desidius wouldn’t move again, she shakily exhaled. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes and she grabbed a sheet from the corner of the shack and put it over his body. Blood seeped through, bloomed and spread across the coarse fabric. She stood and stared, dumbfounded, shaking, frozen in place.

"I didn't have a choice," she told herself, voice returned, but tiny, unsure. So why did she feel so guilty? Kiaran stared down at her bloody hand and looked wildly around the cabin for something, anything. A vial of some foul, yellow-looking liquid stood next to a pile of Tranquil skulls.

She poured all of it out over her hand and the knife until most of the blood was gone, and wiped the rest on the dirty scraps of fabric in the storehouse. One more encounter, and she made it through, again, somehow. Kiaran picked up her staff, held it close, thanked Andraste for seeing her through the threat of death again.

How did the morning come to this?

When Luin hadn’t come back to the cabin, she feared he’d left her, or worse.

It made sense, to be fair. Would she take herself back out, rely on her to get done what needed to be done? He was so good at...well, everything, and all she had was what she learned in the Circle and living on the road as a refugee. So she followed his advice and went to the harbour where the merchants and the farmers traded, and began asking around. None had seen him since three nights before, but more importantly, the Tevinter mages that arrived had taken to using one of the old shacks as storage.

Smart girl she was, Kiaran broke in to see what they were storing. She hadn't forgotten Luindir's distrustful hiss in the forest, and his disappearance made her more fearful, more suspicious, more shameful that she never listened in the first place.

The enchanted skulls of Tranquil was not what she expected to find, along with a sales document for the Llerin family, listing the names of a few dozen villagers and visitors. Not the least of which included Luindir, and herself. She couldn't shake the pit of cold that formed in her stomach.

That was when Desidius caught her and...well, she could at least speak to her survival skills. Now she was in this shack, surrounded by the skulls of her Tranquil colleagues and the body of a magister she’d been unknowingly sold to. The others had to know. But as she reached for the papers again, a spark of black energy burst from the body of Desidius and snaked around her before it disappeared under the fabric of her clothes. Rolling back her sleeves, she saw nothing, felt nothing. A trick to scare off Templars?

Kiaran folded the document and hid it between the pages of her book strapped to her hip. She peeped out the grimy window to see if anyone was near. The closest cluster were a group of clerics trading with the bookseller. She walked out of the cabin and shut the door behind her as if she was supposed to be there, taking her time, securing the latch. Trying to hide the skittish energy that pounded in her chest, she walked with calculated, even strides up the stairs and back toward the healer’s house.

Maker bless her, the house was empty.

Furiously, she wiped the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “Luin, where did you go?” she asked the silence.

Outside, people ran past the house and up the hill, toward the village gates. She glanced out the window, saw a familar tinge of green fading in and out beyond the stone structure of the garrison.

A fade rift.

Kiaran felt the strength leave her then, and collapsed to the floor shaking. Bringing her knees to her chest, and dropping her head, she begged for it all to stop.

 

* * *

 

“You were in Kirkwall, right?”

Aedhin looked up from his waterskin to a young elf that approached them. “About a year ago, yeah,” he said, voice cracking with exhaustion. “Did we meet there?”

The boy crouched down next to the fire with them, holding a hand-carved Halla figure. “Yes? I took your letters, remember? When I showed the taint, Mama and I came here. We were able to get out of the alienage because of your helpers.”

Aedhin stared at him, squinting, trying to think back. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Karesh?” The boy was much taller than he remembered, hair longer and braided back tightly, and his clothes, though short on his long limbs, looked much nicer than Aedhin last saw.

“Kar’ish,” he corrected. “They said you stopped the templars and the apostates on the King’s Road. Are you helping us move again?”

Aedhin did not meet the questioning stares of his party, but smiled at the boy. “I don’t know yet. The Grand Enchanter invited us.”

Kar’ish stood. “She doesn’t call herself that anymore,” was all he said before he ran off.

“You’re quite the traveler,” Solas remarked once they were alone again. “You went to Kirkwall after the fighting broke out?”

“It’s not as glorious as it sounds,” Aedhin sighed tiredly, wrapping one arm around himself to clutch the injury on his ribs, “I was looking for someone, and figured my brother would stay off my back if I did something for the family name. We built a couple of buildings and I helped some local kids get out. Had a few drinks with the Viscount-regent. Nothing special.”

“Sounds to him like you were someone special indeed.” Solas crouched next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. When did the scout say Fiona would be at the tavern?”

“Just before sunset, not long from now,” Cassandra repeated, “I had hoped to get this business settled _before_ dark.” As they crouched near one of the campfires on the pier, she noted out loud that with the exception of two dwarves and a few Tranquil clerics, she and Aedhin were the only non-mages in the city. While she felt no indication of blood magic, not being able to tell where the other residents had gone troubled her. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, the other tense and ready to quell magic at any second.

“To be perfectly honest I don’t think I could climb on a horse right now, much less ride one back to the Crossroads,” Aedhin muttered, sipping again on the water. "Let's expect to stay put for now."

The pain receded to an ache, but the spells and the potion only did so much. As they feared, the bones were broken and disjointed in several places, but he was afraid to reset them while they sat exposed in an unfamiliar place. For now, the bandages and spells to ease the pain would have to do.

“We’ll tread carefully,” promised Solas, “Our escort should be arriving from the outskirts camp within the next few hours.”

“I’m more concerned about those boats lining the docks,” Vivienne said. “The crest...troubles me.”

“We’ll know what we’re getting into soon.” Aedhin slowly, carefully, pulled himself to his feet, wincing as he did. After a few shaky breaths, he stood straight and managed a bit of his trademark smirk. “If I start walking now, I might just get to the tavern on time.”

“Idiot,” breathed Cassandra, but she walked next to him at his pace, sharp eyes glancing in shadowed alleys and over the mages they passed, waiting, expecting, a resistance to come against them.

As they passed another fire, an elderly elf clasped his hands in prayer, mumbling apology for not being able to leave, begging for the conflict to end.

“Can we help you at all?” Aedhin asked, as he stopped for breath, leaning into the stone walls.

The man, though hesitant at first, told the story of his wife - how the two escaped an alienage in Emprise du Lion when they were young, and settled in Hafter’s Woods after crossing the Frostback Mountains. Aedhin eased down onto the bench with the old man as he spoke, seemingly unaware of Vivienne and Cassandra’s frustrated expressions. The man and his wife lived in the woods for decades, raised a number of animals, for they remained childless. At the first breakout of the Blight, his wife passed away, and he buried her near where their home used to stand. After that, he fled to Redcliffe to help the healers and the displaced mages, but every autumn returned to Hafter’s Woods to pay homage to her memory.

Aedhin, wearing a rare, sombre expression, looked up to the man as he finished telling his story. “There’s a fort near there that the Inquisition is using as an outpost to defend against the demons,” he said finally, “I have some business there before we return to Haven. If you’d like, we can bring the memorial for you. I believe we saw it on top of the hill near where we set up one of our camps.” Vivienne began to protest, and Aedhin held up his hand.

“Mourning a loved one is difficult as it is,” he continued, rising up to his feet again. “The people in Redcliffe could certainly use your knowledge and wisdom a little longer. When we pass through the woods, I’ll be sure to let Senna know you haven't forgotten her.” He shook the elderly elf’s hand, and without another word to his companions, began the climb up the stairs toward the tavern.

Cassandra moved in front of him when he reached for the door. “I will go in first. Just in case.”

It turned out that instead of Grand Enchanter Fiona, the Magister she’d sworn the mages to, named Gereon Alexius, waited for them instead. A growing sense of dread shadowed over Aedhin as he sat with the magister. Nothing he’d ever done in his life prepared him for this, to trade the value of human lives. The Magister initially reminded him of his older brother - calm, cunning, calculated. Aedhin sat back as casually as he could with a lopsided smirk and invited the magister to barter with him for the assistance of the mages. Maybe, if he danced this dance, he could save them from a future of being indentured to the Magisterium.

Maybe it would deflect a war. There had to be a reason Tevinter wanted the resistance inside of their borders.

As his son Felix came to join the talks, he collapsed suddenly into Aedhin, and Alexius excused himself to look after him. It felt a little like a bad theatre play, and Aedhin felt a flash of hopelessness as it became clear all of this was out of his hands.

With business unfinished, and an ominous note in hand, he couldn't help but feel he'd lost this one.

They stayed in the inn just to finish eating, and several Tranquil approached the table asking about the Inquisition. Three of the four asked if they could head to Haven to help. The fourth elected to stay behind and help care for anymore wounded that came to Redcliffe.

As they left the inn, the barkeep muttered a warning. “Several people poking around for answers have already gone missing. Magister doesn’t like folk asking questions.”

Outside, as the sun dipped behind the mountain that surrounded the lake, Aedhin looked down at the note. “Well then, friends,” he said, “Should we go knock on trouble’s door one more time?” Up the hill, the Chantry entrance was built into the stone cliffside of the village. A perfect structure to withstand a little combat. Despite the aching in his side, Aedhin walked toward it, and then began to laugh.

“I hardly understand the joke.” Vivienne stared him down coolly.

“Every time I walk into a new Chantry, something tries to kill me,” he explained, unable to contain the chuckles even with the pain. “Should we bet on what it will be this time? Angry templars? Magisters? A demon possessed batch of angry farmers?”

But the mirth died from his face when they reached the door, and green sparks lit up from the gauntlet on his left hand. Aedhin pressed his forehead to the door, prayed to the Maker to go easy on him, just this once. It had to be rift.

“Cassandra.”

“Yes, Aedhin?”

He couldn’t recall her using his name before to address him. He shook his head. “Uh...right. Bar the door once we’re inside. Let’s try to keep this quiet, or at least keep the civilians out.”

“As you wish.”

Inside, the Chantry had been torn apart. The benches, broken and splintered, were piled against the stone walls. The paintings were ripped and burning. At the end of the hall, a statue of Andraste was knocked over, broken in the middle, her face shattered.

In the center, two men flanked a rift. One held his hands out muttering under his breath, a ward, as elvhen ruins lit up under his feet. The longbow on his back glowed bright blue, near white, as he spoke. Around him, puddles of green reacted to the rift’s pulses. Small pools of energy that looked very much like the one Aedhin almost died from hours earlier.

The other man, well dressed in fine silks and beautifully stitched leather armour, knocked back a Wraith in a burst of fire before glancing to the group at the door.

“About time you showed up! Care to lend a hand?” With a wicked grin he turned back to the tear in front of him, and a bright immolate spell exploded in the face of the demon that appeared there. Vivienne’s lightning followed soon after, traveling out in waves from her staff into the forms of the demons rising from the floor.

Aedhin’s hand crackled, and he swore under his breath. The ward around the rift shattered suddenly, throwing the caster back into the wall. Aedhin ducked under a ball of fire thrown by the Rage demon that now formed in place of the ward, ambling toward him. The mark on his had glowed brighter, begged him to bring it closer to the rift. His injuries begged him not to.

“Draw them away from the rift!” he shouted, readying a smoke potion from his belt, “I’ll work as fast as I can!” He threw it down and ducked into the shadows of the far wall, edging along the debris as the demons chased after Cassandra’s warcries and Vivienne’s lightning. Aedhin’s first attempt to close the rift made it shudder, and then after a pause, exploded forth with more demons and ghosts.

Now, he was surrounded.

He drew his knives, mind racing, looking for a pocket or an opening out of their encirclement. He drew back one elbow to try and guard his injuries, if he was better, he could slip through--

“On the count of three, roll to your right!” The man from before stood in front of the broken Andraste, bladed longbow set firm into the floor. Magic swirled at the center of the bow. At the tip of the arrow he drew back, ice formed and pulsed, like a raging heartbeat. The room suddenly dropped in temperature, and clouds formed from their breaths. The elf barely shouted the word ‘three!’ and Aedhin threw himself to the right.

The arrow ripped past with a shimmering whistle, bursts and spikes of ice rising up like a wall around it until it thudded hard into the back of the Rage demon cornering Cassandra at the door. It exploded in a flurry of ice crystals and steam. The demons that tried to circle Aedhin were locked in the path of ice left behind, screeching. Numb by adrenaline, fear, and awe, Aedhin stuck his left hand forward again. It moved so fast, it was a blur of green, and as the rift snapped shut he realized he’d stood in one of the circles of energy again. A better one, this time.

The silence swallowed the space in the Chantry. Everyone stared at each other, breathing hard.

The man in the fine robes spoke first, with a barely contained laugh. “So that’s how you do it? Just..wiggle your fingers? You don’t even know how it works, do you?”

“And you are?” he asked, trying to hold the daggers casually. Just in case. _Weirder shit has happened,_ Varric’s voice rang in his head. _And weirder shit will keep happening to_ ** _you_** _, I’ll bet._

“Ah, of course, of course, my apologies. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently, of Minrathous. How do you do?” The mage gave a shallow bow, and Aedhin couldn’t tell if he was being mocked.

“Aedhin Trevelyan,” he replied stiffly.

“This one is another Tevinter,” Cassandra warned, sword still drawn. “Do not trust him.”

“Suspicious friends. Good to have, really,” Dorian remarked, still smiling. “I’ll take this to mean Felix passed you the note. Funny thing, this whole Redcliffe exchange, isn’t it?”

“And my sense of humour is wearing thin. Get to the point.” All Aedhin could think of was lying down and letting the healers work on him. He pictured a soft cot and a hot fire, and a very deep glass of spirits.

“Yes, yes, getting there,” Dorian waved him off, “Now, don’t you think it a bit uncanny? A fleet of Tevinter ships sails in and takes the mages right under your nose, not more than a few weeks after the Divine Conclave. Almost as if by magic yes?” His tone darkened. “Which is exactly how Alexius did it. He distorted time to get here first. He knew you were coming. These rifts are the consequence.”

“Preposterous,” said Vivienne, stepping forward. “It’s never been proven, and it’s never been possible. Try harder, Tevinter.”

“I helped develop this, actually,” he admitted, “Years ago when I was still his apprentice. Thing was, we never were able to get it to work. I still haven’t discovered his secret, but I’m telling you, it’s how he’s doing it, and we need to stop him as soon as we can. He is tearing the very fabric of the world apart. These rifts, did you see how strange they were? Those pools of energy on the floor?”

“Some fast, some slow,” Aedhin concluded, “But why--“ He shook his head. “The why doesn’t matter. What does he want?”

“He did all of this to get to you.” From a side door to the hall, the magister’s son, Felix, walked in. “My father’s lost his way. Joined a cult, Tevinter purists calling themselves Venatori. I can’t find out the reason, but the ‘Elder One’ that leads them wants you.”

Aedhin huffed. “All this effort and I didn’t even plan for a gift.”

Dorian laughed, and looked to Felix. “Does he suspect anything?”

“Not yet, but...”

There was a bang on the door of the Chantry.

“Luindir!” a young woman’s voice called from the door, and she pounded her fist against the wood. “Luin, are you in there?”

“Oh! Kiki!” The man with the bow stepped forward - a Dalish elf, Aedhin realized, and quite young - walked quickly to the door, past the others with complete confidence. He pulled the narrow bar from the handles and opened it. The girl outside jumped into his arms, and he slid the door shut behind her.

“It’s fine, I’m alright,” he assured her, smoothing her hair. “This man needed my help.”

“I thought they took you,” she exclaimed, pulling a paper from her pocket, “You never came back and so I went looking, by the traders, like you said. They’ve been taking the tranquil and I thought they took you too! Because I found this, near the docks, they’re taking a bunch of the younger ones back to the north, especially the elves, our names are on it, and so many others, and one of the ships already left, and then when I found it Desidius attacked me--“

The clang of Aedhin’s daggers on the stone floor made the girl jump, and instantly she went silent.

Everyone turned to the Herald, whose eyes were wide with disbelief, face drained of colour. He stumbled back and grabbed the broken wood of the bench near him to hold himself steady. This must be a trick of the Fade. It had to be. She was taller than he recalled, but looked exactly as he imagined when he heard she’d left for Haven. Just like their mother, and fairer than Etain, but with darker eyes, and the olive undertone of the Trevelyans. His pulse thundered in his ears and he tried several times to speak, to say anything, but his mouth hung open silently in confusion and disbelief.

She shied behind Luindir, hands clutching his coat. The elf was the first to catch on, glancing between the two. With a kind smile, Luin placed a hand on Kiaran’s shoulder.

“Ah...you didn’t tell me you knew the Herald of Andraste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never want to move again.
> 
> Weekend updates should be back to normal now that everything is done and I have resumed my antisocial habits.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that he could not take back the things he said, the things he did, and more importantly: the things he did not do.

Snow fell outside of Haven, the first signs of the waning summer.

Several inches accumulated over the little town, thick, heavy, and wet. Anticipating a harsh winter with more bodies to house, the working crews of Haven set to work on expansion. Some of the orphaned youth that found their way to the pilgrim post also took up tasks, a few running the horsemaster’s preparations for the winter, others assisting almost with thatching roofs of the new structures. The rest, too old to play and too young to build, helped mind the few littler ones still needing supervision.

A new storehouse reached completion, attached to the Chantry. A mix of Josephine’s traders and Leliana’s men oversaw the construction and protection of the storehouse as their most valuable asset in the village. Daily, they received supplies through Quartermaster Threnn, who was determined to get in as much as possible before the lake froze over again at the first full frost. A handful of mages from the Marches partnered with her with plans to develop a greenhouse on the south-facing side of the town. The small test garden, used currently for elfroot, had so far been a success. Despite the sickly green glare of the Breach hanging over the mountains, the mood upon the Inquisition was one of resounding hope and success, at least as far as its public face.

Josephine came out only in the evening to eat, staying inside her office instead as she worked to bring Thedas together under the Inquisition's banner. Aedhin's incredible impression on Val Royeaux set them back further than even she expected. Stacks of books, letters, and scrolls near buried the desk, so much that the ambassador now only wrote on her tiny clipboard, and instead used the desk as a steady rotation of new, read, half-started, discarded, and answered communications. Next to the desk, on a little footstool, a tied stack of letters from Antiva and a small box of candies sat unopened.

The only reason Josephine kept the door open was to let out the smoke and residue from the candles and the hearth. Minaeve complained when her desk smelled of wax and ash.

“It seems you have good instinct, Josie.” Leliana entered the study and set down a tiny scroll on the desk. “The Herald’s sister is alive and well. They found her in Redcliffe.”

“What?!” Fumbling with the seal, Josephine unrolled the small scroll and read it several times over, eyebrows raised high and eyes wide. “Aedhin was certain she traveled to the Conclave with the First Enchanter from Ostwick!”

Leliana shrugged, intertwining her fingers behind her back. “I suppose not. Did you also know her, Josie?”

“Not well,” the ambassador said, drawing her coat tighter around herself. “The twins were...very antisocial and only ever interacted with us at the request of their mother. And, she did so only if Aedhin was there to supervise. I recall her being very protective of them. And of course, given Aedhin's penchant for trouble with my brothers...” Her face lit up in an easy smile. “He must be so relieved. I remember he looked after them with such fondness when we were young. He was very proud."

If Leliana showed any interest in Josie's story, it did not show. Sh looked at the portrait above the fireplace. “With what we know about Rodhain Trevelyan, I’ve ordered my spies to quell any rumour of her being alive for now. We haven't the resources to worry about that scandal, yet.” Leliana paused and glanced over at the ambassador, nearly hidden behind her stacks of work. “I want to hear what the Herald found at Redcliffe before anymore information is shared from our part. We've lost many contacts in the north already.”

“A wise choice,” Josephine agreed. “When are we expecting their return?”

“Any day now, supposedly.” The spymaster shrugged, and turned to the door. “I thought you’d like to know about his sister before they arrived. She was in Kirkwall for many years. It might do us well for her to have a friend once she arrives.”

Josephine did not miss the implication and stood, putting her writing board to the side. “Thank you, Leliana. It is much appreciated. I'll see that her accomodations are made in advance." As Leliana left, Josephine paced the room in thought, tapping her chin absently. She tried to recall anything about the twins, but the only memories vivid to her were of the two hiding in corners of the library or the garden, staring, wide-eyed and silent.

It dawned on her that she couldn't even remember their voices, and suddenly she doubted that she'd ever met Kiaran or Donovon at all.

"Leliana?" But the spymaster had left. Leaving the papers behind, Josephine chased out of the Chantry to find her again.

 

* * *

 

“What do you mean _you’re not coming?_ ”

Luindir put his hands on Kiaran’s shoulders. “Dorian needs a guide. I’ve spent a few years now in Ferelden, and if his plans are to succeed, he needs the help of a tracker to get in and out of that castle.”

“Then I’m coming with you!” she exclaimed, twisting out of his touch. “We started this together! And you said yourself you don't trust--”

“You are not coming, Da’len,” he said softly, “This path is dangerous, and any larger a group will put all of us in greater danger. Go with the Inquisition. I will meet you there when we have finished what we’ve set out to do.”

“You’re being unreasonable! I don’t know that I can trust _them_ anymore than--”

Luindir took a deep breath. “Kiaran. Your brother...”

“Ten years ago he was my brother! He doesn't know me! I don't know him!”

“I’m sorry. We must part ways, but I will find you again.” He took one of her hands in both of his. “Go with the Inquisition. Help them understand what you’ve seen. And when I come find you in Haven, you’ll teach me about what you’ve learned. Does that sound fair?” He noted her fury, but also her fear, and though he didn't want to send her off among strangers this way either, she could offer them no support for this.

"Why don't I get a say?" she demanded. "Who says I want to be a part of this Inquisition? All I want is to be left alone, not to answer to another army!"

“Kiaran!” Aedhin called from across the camp, where the horses were ready for travel. “It’s now or never! We need to get to the pass camp before dark!”

“It's not safe for you and I in this village any longer. Dareth shiral, my friend.” Luindir kissed the tips of her fingers and locked eyes with Aedhin, giving the slightest, polite nod, before he turned away. With hands clenched into fists, and grinding her teeth, Kiaran went to her brother, and though fuming, let him help her up onto the massive Ferelden forder before he climbed up behind her.

From the shade of the forest, Luindir leaned against the trunk of the tree and watched as they disappeared over the hill.

“Bit of fire and brimstone in that one after all, isn’t there?” remarked Dorian from behind him, arms crossed.

“For now,” Luindir said, eyes unreadable, “She has strength enough for two. The fury comes from her youth. She’ll channel it into a passion soon enough.”

“Because you’re ohhhh-so-old.” Dorian shook his head with a laugh. “Well then, my long-eared friend, shall we ‘hit the road,’ as the southerners say?” Luindir pulled up the hood of his cloak, and Dorian did as well. Luin pushed himself off the tree and walked away from the paths, deeper into the forest, through brush and trail untouched. On foot, the castle was a long journey around the edges of Lake Calenhad. He hoped Felix would buy them time enough to get there, and get inside.

That first night they camped, they only slept for two hours at a time, each rousing the other for the watch before settling down. Iverian Llerin left Ferelden with a boat full of young mages, but Romaris remained behind. Furious at the discovery of his partner's body, Romaris began a witchhunt for the two mages that fled the village - Kiaran, and Luindir. Initially, Luindir only slept a few minutes at a time, fitful, paranoid. He glanced over to the Tevinter mage, who filed his nails disinterestedly on the other side of their small camp. He waited for him to show his other motives, but Luin's suspicion was left disappointed.

Dorian gave him no real reason to distrust him, but the Free Marches were only so far from the Imperium. More than once, the aravels came in contact with slavers, runaway Tevinter opportunists come to find elvhen lives to trade in Rivain. More than once, they escaped with the broken bodies of their kin left behind.

Then once, he followed them back, to try to understand why. It bubbled a seething hatred in his skin, one he hadn't had to push away in some time, and he picked callously at the dry skin peeling on his cuticles, to try to focus on the moment at hand. By his second watch, he meditated, and reasoned that if Dorian intended to cross him, he might have done it already that first night in the Chantry.

The Tevinter’s flippant attitude irked him, the more he thought about it, with his whistling as they went, or his loud and flashy magic when they were attacked by bandits or bears. But for all his show-ponying, Luin couldn’t deny his character was genuine and he did sincerely seem to want to avoid whatever bloodshed Alexius had in mind for the mages. Still, he missed Kiaran’s company, her watchful eyes and curious questions, and in his thoughts he asked Mythal to watch over her, too.

Near dawn, neither could sleep, and Dorian ventured to chat about Luindir, instead.

“What brings a Dalish elf to travel alone, anyway? Is your clan gone?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other as he stared up at the warming sky.

“Not at all. When I left, my clan was healthy, and well. I was Second to the Keeper, actually.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way but I am completely serious when I tell you I have absolutely no idea what that means.” Dorian twirled the end of his moustache around his finger.

Luindir's lips twisted some, as if he couldn't decide to laugh or frown. “Among the clans, three magic-wielders can stay there at a time. The Keeper, a First, and eventually, a Second.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, but sounded still like he didn’t understand. Or at the least, didn’t believe it. “Powerful young man like you wasn’t enough to be the First? And don't be modest, now! I saw what you did in that Chantry, not an easy bit of work to summon a winter frost like that.”

The elf shrugged. “Our First is much older, much wiser. I was raised a hunter and hid my magical talent for many years, to our Keeper's ire. I wanted to be an artist. I became Second because I could hunt, and I could cast, and I could carve.”

“And yet you left. Family disagreement? Boredom? Bad marriage?”

“...many reasons.” Luindir sat up and reached for a cluster of flowers growing next to him, and began to weave them together, avoiding the question. “Clan Lavellan travels, and builds its bridges with the shemlen in Wycome. But the scars of hatred and conquest are hard to overcome. I came south to find a better way.”

“Well I can understand that...at least a little.” Dorian closed his eyes. “Are you happy that you left?”

Luindir sat in thought for a moment. “I miss them very much, but I do not regret my choice.” He looked to the other mage, who, for an instant, looked like he might share more. Luindir waited but Dorian sat up then and rolled the kinks out of his shoulders.

“Since we’re both up we may as well get going then.”

Luindir set the flowers aside. “We might as well.”

Both men stood, dusted their clothes, and began walking again. This time, they did not talk. Dorian did not whistle, and rather seemed deep in thought. Luin was content to leave him that way. Less noise, less trouble.

As the great fortress came into view, his steps became slower, more calculated, and he searched the trees and the earth for signs of wards. He stuck his arm out to stop Dorian from proceeding forward. Cautioning silence with a finger to his lips, Luindir pointed down to the lake edge below.

Dorian went pale.

Along the lake’s edge, among the jagged rocks, pieces of bodies were strewn haphazardly among circles of blood rituals. At least three of the torsos wore the crest of the Inquisition. Cracked, but clearly left in place. Old Tevene symbols were smeared on the cliff edge. Warnings to trespassers. Along the far shore, where the bodies were further apart, rage demons stalked the edges. A symbol of the Venatori was burned into the grass. The air, so thick with grief and sacrifice, made them both struggle for breath.

Luindir, blue eyes narrow and dark, tapped Dorian's shoulder and gestured for him to watch his step, climbing carefully, silently, over the fallen trees and underbrush as they crept closer to Redcliffe Castle.

 

* * *

 

Cullen was on his second go through reports from the Storm Coast when Aedhin came through the gates with his traveling party. Briefly, there was pause in the soldiers’ combat drills as he passed through on the way to the stables, but a sharp yell from Rylen had them back on their feet.

Cullen nodded to his friend, passed the report back to the agent standing next to him, and walked off to greet Aedhin on the way to the Chantry.

With the Herald rode a young woman he presumed to be the sister detailed in Leliana’s report. With Aedhin’s coat drawn tightly around her, and a staff tied loosely to her back, she mostly kept her eyes on the ground and her shoulders pressed in close to her ears. When the commander caught up to the two on the path, he realized with a sinking feeling that he recognized her. That this was where he recognized the name: Trevelyan. On more than one occasion he'd been the one to deliver reprimand for her spirited behaviour.

“Cullen!” Aedhin waved him over. “I’m sure Leliana’s made you aware, this is my baby sister, Kiaran.”

“We’ve met.” Kiaran’s gaze could not have been less impressed, and she stepped a few inches behind her brother. “And yet no one expected the by-the-book Knight-Captain was the one to turn on Meredith Stannard. _Eventually_.” Then she looked to her brother. “I’m also _not_ a child, Aedhin.”

“I do not go by that title anymore, Lady Kiaran,” Cullen said, albeit more stiffly that when he’d corrected other recruits in the past. “I’m pleased to see you alive and well.” When all she did was stare, Cullen cleared his throat and looked to Aedhin.

“We received word you were injured quite badly in the Hinterlands.”

Aedhin shrugged. “Broke some ribs, thought I punctured a lung. Turns out demons can throw you pretty hard, did you know that?" He glanced back at his sister, and then to the Commander. “I’m going to bring Kiaran to Josephine for now. Once everyone is cleaned up I’d like to see you in the War Room. The situation has changed immensely.”

“Just as well,” Cullen replied, voice dropping some, “The news from the north isn’t very good, either. I’ll have the report in full when we meet later. Until then.” He nodded to Aedhin, and then a little deeper to Kiaran, before he turned away, back down the path. The headache threatened him again at the back of his neck. Plenty of templar and mage recruits came in from Kirkwall. Each time was just as hard as the last. A reminder that he could not take back the things he said, the things he did, and more importantly: the things he did not do. To some of these mages, for a time, he was the very nightmare he used to see in them. He repeated this to himself, over and over ad nauseam, as a reminder to stay the course. To be _better._

The painful throbbing reached his ears and had his mind begging for the sweet song of a dose of lyrium. He clasped both hands over the pommel of his sword to steady the shaking.

 _I will not_ , he thought, chanting in his mind, _Not again. Not anymore_.

After darkness set over Haven, he headed into the Chantry to meet with the others for the council. As he passed by Josephine’s study, Kiaran was blanketed in one of the ambassador’s furs and had her nose pressed in a book.

But Circle mages always knew when eyes were upon them.

Her eyes slid over to meet his, and though the intensity of her stare never wavered, she pulled herself further into the fur and turned her back to him. Cullen continued toward the war room. Winning her forgiveness was a battle for another day.

He closed the door behind him. Aedhin nodded in greeting and Cullen stepped into his pacing place behind the table.

“Who would like to go first?” A tiredness he hadn’t heard before permeated the Herald’s voice. “I’ll start this off by saying I really don’t think we’re going to have good luck with the mages right now.”

As the five exchanged their stories of the last two weeks, Cullen wondered where their options were limited to now. He still believed staunchly that allying with the Templars was the safest bet. If not to weed out the power hungry leadership among them, at least to combat whatever the Imperium intended to do with the entire group of rebel mages. All he was able to get out of the Order was that Lord Seeker Lucius would speak only with the highest political power. As it stood now, that meant bargaining with Orlais, since the Order seized land in Ferelden without so much as an argument from the King. Alistair's forces were, for the time being, divided between aiding the Inquisition and fending off the pirates in the north and the Avvar in the south.

“With some time, we could gather what we need to garner support from several well-respected houses in Orlais,” Josephine suggested, “It will cost us much in the way of gold and supplies, but since I already went to the trouble of locating where the lyrium was being smuggled...”

“Do that, then,” Aedhin said. “Meanwhile, what the hell is happening up on the Storm Coast?”

“Two patrols that went to scout the area have gone missing,” Cullen said, distaste in his voice. “Between the dragons, the rifts, pirates, and slavers, Scout Harding hasn’t been able to gather any clues.”

“Comforting.” Aedhin shook his head. “How many men total have we lost?”

“A score and a half.”

Cassandra stepped forward. “Let us go north, then, while Leliana and Josephine work to get us what we need to approach the Order. I should like to see what is really happening there.”

Aedhin nodded. “That will hopefully give Luindir and Dorian time to get in touch with the Inquisition and report what’s been happening at Redcliffe Castle.”

Cullen stepped from side to side. The shapes on the map blurred together as the pain throbbed in his head, now all the way to his temples. “If we can gain a foothold on the Storm Coast, we might also be able to control some of the exports heading south. It might prove useful in bargaining with the Order.”

“There are some other things I’d like for you to check on if you’re heading that direction.” Leliana hadn’t spoken until then. “Grey Wardens were last spotted on the coast. They may have left some clues behind in their camps, if you could look. Blackwall should be able to assist. Additionally, a mercenary outfit called The Bull’s Chargers contacted us recently. They’re hunting the slavers right now, but petitioned us to hire them. I would rather you decide once you’ve seen them, rather than make the choice blind. They could prove useful.”

“Write down what I need to know for this and I’ll see that it gets done.” Aedhin stretched, making several popping sounds. Cullen winced; he knew that feeling more than well enough.

“Is that all, Herald?” he asked.

“For tonight, yes,” Aedhin agreed. “Tomorrow we’ll plan the trip north. Oh, Cullen...” He waited until Cullen looked up at him. “I expect, with the trouble in Redcliffe, some friction between our mages and templars again. Might be best if we come up with something... _inspiring_ for everyone tomorrow. Some kind of smaller goal they can work together on."

“I will make a plan,” Cullen promised, trying not to let the oath sound empty. Tension was already tough in the barracks. “If that is all, I bid you all goodnight.” While usually the last one to leave, Cullen couldn’t take the pain, the dancing lights in his eyes. Cassandra gave him ever the slightest nod as he passed her, knowing full well, seeing right through his careful words and avoidant eyea.

So taken by the pain, he bumped right into the Herald’s younger sister standing outside the Chantry door.

“Oh, I...forgive me. I should have been paying better attention.” Cullen cleared his throat and crossed both hands in front of him, careful not to place them on the sword. He learned weeks ago that this particular habit put the mages on edge when they were alone.

Kiaran looked more startled than angry, this time. “It’s fine. I’m not fragile, as much as Aedhin seems to think.” She stared at her feet a little, before she realized she was still standing in front of him, and jumped to the side. She looked him up and down, before settling to stare at his eyes. She must have noticed how unfocused and bloodshot they were, even in the dark.

“If you freeze spindleweed flat, you can use it as a compress for pain as it thaws,” Kiaran said, wrapping her arms around her. “It’ll numb the area for a few hours. Might help. We used it a lot for...well...the apostates with lyrium withdrawals.” She seemed hesitant to share more, and he realized she was speaking of her time  _after_ she escaped the Gallows. Before his mind could jump to the dark corners, the philosophical debate of the weight of admission, he focused back on her cold stare.

“You’re very thoughtful,” he replied, “But please, don’t concern yourself with worry for me, Lady Kiaran. Good night.”

She shrugged, and he turned away and headed toward the cabins. Confused by her kindness, but ultimately too tired to worry about it, by the time his armour hit the bedside table, he was already halfway to sleep. By some blessing, his dreams were dark, except for the briefest flashes of childhood memory, playing in the farming fields of his parents’ home in Honnleath.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let me put it in a way that someone very wise once did for me. What do you want to do to help?"

A blessed fact of traveling further north meant bringing along far fewer furs and blankets once they were clear of the Frostbacks. The party traveled lighter, faster, and were able to leave the mountain supplies at an Inquisition camp located on the edge of Gherlen's Pass. By the time they crossed into the Bannorn, everyone's spirits seemed lifted, even as they headed toward what looked to be their most sombre adventure yet.

The Herald's party set up close together when they stopped for camp in the evening, with a small circle of soldiers guarding their tents a short distance away.

Though Blackwall left the Hinterlands looking a textbook stoic, it turned out that the warden was quite the romantic. He took to long walks with Solas in the night, as they shared stories of battles they'd seen and the people that inspired them. If he had any wariness of magic, he didn't show it, and despite a stern expression deeply set on his face, he was pleasant company for them all. Late in the night, when Solas retired to sleep, Blackwall spent time with the horses, smoothing down their blankets and soothing them as part of his rounds to secure the camp.

As they sat near the fire alone, it occured to Cassandra that she knew little of Aedhin besides what she learned from Josephine. She knew he was the handsomer second son of the Bann, and the more popular of his siblings. He had a number of influential contacts in Kirkwall well beyond the reach of Guard-Captain Aveline. He spoke fluent Orlesian and seemed at least faintly aware of the political climate of their surroundings. And he was sharp, at least insofar as the jabs and jokes _not_ directed at her expense. Not one predisposed to easy conversation, she stared into the fire for inspiration before she decided to start where she knew.

"How is the bruising?" she asked, each word stilted, jagged, as she tried to sound soft. While the other two were out on her walk, this was her only chance to try and build a better bridge.

Aedhin looked up. "Hm? Oh, looks worse than it is, now." His eyes narrowed some as he smirked. "Dare I say, are you concerned for me, Seeker Cassandra?"

Her nostrils flared with her temper. "Your well-being is the well-being of this entire organization," she said flatly, but realized as she spoke that tone might not ease their companionship. She sat straight, and looked away from him. "I apologize. What I meant to say is I don't know you, not really. Except that you always say yes, and that you terribly miscalculate your odds when you throw yourself into battle. And Maker knows why, you find Varric to be pleasing company."

He held his chin in his hand, leaned forward and stared at her with a blank face before his crooked smile came back. "Now that's not true, I tell Chancellor Roderick 'no' all the time. And I drink more with our commander than I do with Varric."

"Oh, my mistake," she said with a roll of her eyes. Aedhin laughed. Her shoulders tightened, instict to deflect his crude humour right back at him.

He waited for her to relax before speaking again. "Well, what do you want to know? I'm not ignorant. Anything Josephine knows, you all know now."

"It is not the _same_." The seeker shook her head. "Tell me more about...where you are from?" She hadn't meant for the last part to sound like a question but doubted herself at the last second. Maker! What a mistake. She should leave the talking for everyone else.

"Ostwick? It's hot. Boring," he said, "I mean, there's crime and murder and all that other fun city stuff but the scandals are mild. There's little to do. The shoreline is nice, the sand is clean. The nature around the city is barely touched. After the Qunari occupation, a lot of work went into those walls to keep outsiders out. No civil scuffles in recent memory. Black market's bit of a problem." He held his chin in thought. "Didn't quite figure out how to tackle that one before I left."

"You are nobility. I was a little surprised to hear from Josephine you were not yet married. That fate is usually decided well before a child can talk." She tossed a log onto the fire, watched as the water on the bark sizzled. She thought back to the several attempts to arrange her future before she was sent off to the Seekers.

"Why, are you interested?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes, and he laughed again. "This may come as a surprise to you Cassandra, but I can be utterly insufferable when the occasion calls for it. For some reason all those girls just _refused_ to stand by my side as my wife. Not everyone can appreciate the charm of a well-bred Trevelyan."

" _Maker_ , I sympathize with their wasted time."

Aedhin laced his fingers under his chin. "Hm, what else? I have three siblings still alive. I used to have four..." He trailed off, then shook his head. "My older sister Etain is very dramatic. Good heart. Awful when she drinks...lots of crying, emotions. She lives in Antiva, presently. Believes in charity work. Almost ended up part of the Chantry, if she hadn't met her husband."

Cassandra leaned forward to listen more. She grew up in a small immediate family, smaller still after the deaths of her parents, and ever isolated as her brother took up hunting dragons and adventuring. With mostly the skeletons of the long dead as companions, she had often wondered as a child what it would have been like with more siblings, or if her uncle had children of his own, cousins her age to share the same house, share the burden of being an heir with nothing else allowed to her. In that respect, at least, she understood his frustration.

"You maintain a good relationship with her, then?"

Aedhin looked fondly off in the distance. "I suppose. She treats me like I'm still a knock-kneed boy trying to find my way, but she sees the good in things. Etain helped me build the library in Kirkwall. It's a public library. I hoped it could be maintained outside the Chantry and the Order. They have them in Tevinter and Antiva. It's the first one in the Marches." His chest swelled with pride, something she hadn't seen in him before.

"I'm pleased to hear she's not like your brother. You have said...very colourful things about him." As Cassandra spoke, Aedhin groaned.

"Rodhain is a good leader when it comes to decisions for the people and the city." Aedhin cracked his knuckles absently. "That's all I can say about him. With fifteen years between us we've never had much in common. His oldest is Kiaran's age, about. We live in different worlds."

Cassandra nodded, and before she could stop herself, asked, "And your other brother? Josephine only mentioned him in passing."

Aedhin's brow furrowed and Cassandra immediately regretted asking the question, feeling her own threads of grief tangling tight in her chest. That was callous of her. But, to her surprise, he continued to share.

"Donovon and Kiaran were twins. From what I remember, he was very imaginative, liked to tell stories and paint. I used to write Etain to send us Antivan epics, those old long poems, because they loved to act out fighting dragons and monsters. Weeks after they were sent to the Circle he was taken by a demon in his Harrowing." Aedhin's stare moved from Cassandra to the campfire, and his shoulders drew up tight around him.

"The worst part is that no one was told. I found out by buying off one of the servant girls in the city, that fooled around with the templars." He took several breaths - shallow breaths, she noted - before he continued. "As much as I hate to admit it, with the age gap between the twins and I, too, I don't remember much except from when they were very little."

"It...sounds to me like you did the best that you could," Cassandra offered slowly, to reassure him, "Your younger sister spits vitriol when she speaks to you, but she seems to respect you."

His charming smile returned, "The only worse thing she could have done to terrify the family was learn to _properly_ handle a sword."

"She could still be taught," Cassandra said, narrowing her eyes in challenge, "Do women with swords frighten you?" She noticed then, across the fire, the exact expression he wore when he was truly caught off guard. He looked her over, up and down, and she wondered what arrogant little quip he'd throw at her this time. Then he scratched the back of his head and laughed uncomfortably.

"Aha, no, I would say, I guess it's more..."

"' _There's no better woman than one who can kick your ass'_ ," Blackwall stepped in from the shadows, "is what that boy means to say." He gave Aedhin a pointed stare as he sat on a log near the fire.

Aedhin spread his hands, and, all at once wordless, muttered something about getting rest and disappeared into his tent. Cassandra couldn't decide how she felt about the course of the conversation, and after some time in silence, bade the warden good night, and left the thought for another time.

 

* * *

 

As much as she hated to admit it, three days in Haven was enough to change her mind. In Redcliffe, she'd felt safe among the mages because the shared fear of death and chains bound them together. The residents spoke openly about magic, what they learned, what they'd seen, what they aspired to master. With the exception of Iverian Llerin and Magister Alexius, Kiaran convinced herself she could warm to the idea of constant defense against the rogue templars that came to hunt them.

Among the people Inquisition, under the frightening glare of the Breach, she felt selfish, guilty at the thought. And the more she stared at the hole in the sky, the harder she found it to remember the exact time, the exact words, or even the voice behind the warning in her dream. Every time, she touched the scar on the back of her head to remind herself it happened at all.

She recognized some faces, the survivors of Kirkwall, but they were not the people she remembered. A pair of sisters, who worked tirelessly under the guidance of First Enchanter Vivienne, were chattier than Kiaran had ever seen. The older one could not be more aghast that Kiaran never shared her connection to the Trevelyan family. The girl obviously thought very highly of her brother, whom she asked Kiaran about incessently until her younger sister stepped in to nag her about her tasks to be done. A hollow, gnashing shadow twisted about in Kiaran's stomach as the sisters left together with their arms linked. After that, Kiaran hid in Josephine's study, a place of recluse the ambassador offered her when they were reintroduced.

"I miss my brother," she said quietly when Josephine asked her what was wrong. The ambassador nodded, but the words lumped in Kiaran's throat when she tried to tell her it wasn't Aedhin that she missed.

On the second day, she lurked near Leliana's tent until the spymaster acknowledged her. Before she could speak, Leliana assured her that she'd send for her as soon as there was news from Redcliffe castle. She wandered Haven looking for something useful to do, and found herself watching the Commander and Ser Rylen attempt to explain what he wanted from a group of young Orlesian men and women that arrived to join the cause. After several minutes it became obvious the new recruits knew only a few words, and she guessed they were from the heart cities in Orlais by their accent. She jumped down from the fence and trudged up to the group.

"Would you like me to translate for now?" she asked, looking up at the Commander. She felt very tiny next to him, all height and fur and shining armour. Kiaran straightened her spine, trying to make herself more present.

"Translate...? Oh? You speak Orlesian?" At first he seemed put off by the suggestion, but as the wheels turned in his mind, she watched him switch to genuine interest.

"Not as well as I'd like," she said, "But I can help, for now, until someone else can."

"Very well. I appreciate it. Try to keep my explanations as close as possible."

Later that night, she overheard him asking Josephine to find him a couple of chevaliers, good ones, to pledge to the cause and help with the language barrier among the recruits, to keep up the inspiration, and the morale. She realized then that perhaps, like the magic-wielding sisters she hadn't seen in years, smiling and excited and inspired, the former Knight-Captain might be different too. It troubled and intrigued her. Dually conflicted, she did not sleep.

In the early light of the morning, when the sky began to turn pinkish behind the stars, Kiaran perched herself on the dock at the lake, and tried to think of what she could offer that that the Inquisition would let her do. As moved as she began to feel about the greater cause of quelling the Breach, convincing anyone to let her do anything had been difficult. She wondered if they knew? When she tried to go home to her family after Donovon's death she was turned away at the gates. _'Only the Trevelyan family can enter here uninvited.'_ If they knew, would they still treat her like glass?

"The not-sleeping must be a family thing," remarked the voice of Commander Cullen behind her. "Your brother likes to perch up on the corner of that bridge." Dressed already in his full regalia, the commander pointed to the stone bridge up the hill.

She frowned. She hadn't even heard him coming up behind her. "Has he ever fallen in?"

Cullen stepped closer. "Not yet, but I try to encourage him not to wander up that way after he's had a few too many pints with Varric."

"If you bet him twenty gold he'd probably do it."

The commander laughed. "For thirty, he'd invite Cassandra and Josephine to watch. I'd pay for that." Kiaran realized the laughter, the occasional smile, threw her off the most. At the Circle, the Knight-Captain was cold, distant, mean in his negligent attitude.

Sobering, he looked down at her. "Something troubling you, Lady Kiaran?"

She tossed her head away and looked back down at her feet dangling from the edge of the dock. "Someone has convinced Josephine and Leliana that I'm too special to do anything serious around here. We know each other. Do I come off that way?" For several minutes the commander was silent and her heart dropped, thinking that it was true.

"I think they don't know _what_ to do with you," Cullen finally said, "But your brother's also very protective. It's a...a thing, older brothers do." Another pause. "But from what I recall..." His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. Kiaran looked back at him.

"From what I recall, Lady Kiaran, you were always..." A long pause. "...very clever."

She took his tone and cautious wording to mean infuriating. She argued a lot back then, before she escaped, before the Chantry blew up. With him. With the lieutenant that answered to him. Especially with the regular templars that were assigned to her area of the tower. She argued as much as she feared, and in Kirkwall, she feared a lot.

He scuffed his foot in the snow to regain her attention. "Let me put it in a way that someone very wise once did for me. What do you _want_ to do to help?"

No one had asked her that. She didn't have an answer. She didn't know.

"If you figure that out," the snow crunched under Cullen's feet as he stepped away, "I'm sure you'll have no trouble convincing the others that you're going to do it."

Kiaran looked down at the water until the sun peeked over the mountain valley, and then in the rippling glare of the light on the water, the answer came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a double update this weekend since this is a shorter chapter.
> 
> Grumpy uncle figure Blackwall was my favourite line to write.
> 
> Toying with writing some short pieces of younger Kiaran causing trouble. Maybe once we get into some more intensity here? Her self awareness of her capacity to irritate was the basis of her character. I can't wait to get into her and Aedhin doing things (*causing headaches) in the same scenes. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedhin put an Inquisition banner at the gate. As warning or promise, he couldn't decide.

Scout Harding had not exaggerated about the state of the operation in the Storm Coast.

The Bull's Chargers killed off most of the pirate invaders by the time Aedhin's party arrived. After a careful, close discussion with Cassandra, Aedhin decided to hire them anyway, against her suspicious judgement. He disliked the idea of a Qunari Ben-Hassrath as part of the Inquisition, but he disliked not holding the reins on that Ben-Hassrath even more. For now, the Chargers were exactly the kind of trained help the Inquisition needed. With the coastline problem out of the way, that left the rest of the list to the Inquisition while Bull reported back to Cullen in Haven.

So they began, in order of highest priority: The missing scouts. The missing Wardens. The rifts.

The climb up the slope to the cabin where the scouts were last seen was troublesome. Slippery, slick with rain and mud, the horses had to be left behind at the camp and the four of them climbed with spikes in hand.

The rain never stopped. Aedhin wondered if he'd ever be warm again.

Hours later, they finally found the first missing party. Throats cut, bodies left to rot on the floor. The Herald's fury showed almost instantly in a bright green crackle from his hand.

"Blades of Hessarian," Aedhin repeated very slowly as he read the note. "This map indicates where they keep their stronghold."

"We'll follow your command," Cassandra reminded him, voice soft, but they all heard the dangerous edge.

Aedhin shoved his dagger into the table, on the spot marked on the map. Cassandra nodded solemnly. Blackwall and Solas said nothing.

They came across two Warden camps while following the path to the fortress. Blackwall kept a few antique tokens he found, explaining their value to Aedhin, who only half-listened. Besides a few letters left behind, Aedhin had a feeling Leliana would be disappointed with the lack of information. The Wardens searched the coast for someone, but no name was given, and no valuable evidence to why could be found. In his opinion, this quest had been a waste of time. The four trudged on through the mud. Aedhin shivered and shook, but could not feel anything other than the pounding of his own heart and the tensing rage in his shoulders.

By accident they found the second scouting party heaped under the shadow of an old dwarven statue, bodies twisted and broken from being shoved off the cliffside. Aedhin bit into his lip so hard it bled. He didn't look any of his comrades in the eye. Thirty lives. Did they have families? How could he return to Haven and tell Cullen and Leliana their people weren't coming home? When they started this, he knew the death toll at the Conclave would be the beginning. The injuries he took in Redcliffe couldn't compare to the hollow breathlessness he felt now. These people died under his banner and their bodies were left desecrated in the wild.

 _Some force for good we've become_ , he thought, over and over, repeated with each squelching footfall.

He barely flinched facing the Fade rift on their way deeper into the valley. He snarled at the snap and crackle of his hand as he forced the rift closed, didn't even acknowledge Solas who asked if he'd been hurt.

"I'm fine," he replied sharply, after Cassandra repeated the question.

The Hessarian camp was far less impressive than Aedhin expected, and the battle was short. Covered in blood and surrounded by the corpses of the Blades and their armed Mabari, he expected to feel better. He didn't.

"Let's follow the shoreline back to the camp," he said. "I ...I can't look at this anymore." They left the fortress open, the carnage in plain view. Aedhin put an Inquisition banner at the gate. As warning or promise, he couldn't decide.

Under the beating rain and crashing wind, stalking the shoreline proved almost as difficult as scaling the cliffs. A series of cavemouths dotted the corner where the beach narrowed into the mountain. The tide, swelling, ate up the edge of the shoreline in huge, smashing crashes against the rock. In the distance, a dragon roared.

"It is very close," advised Cassandra, "Until we have more cover in the dark, we should be cautious."

Aedhin was already climbing up toward the closest cave. "Then we'll wait it out in here."

As it turned out, the cave led into an old Dwarven hall, which trailed deeper into the mountain. The light-stones inside still burned, glowing an eerie, faint red. The cavern was old, but not empty: Fade-touched spiders and deepstalkers both poured out from the corners, trying to edge the group out. An easy set of battles, if not irritating. The gloomy light of the afternoon peeked through an entrance on the far side.

From there, they could see the dragon.

"I think I'd much rather take on the spiders," Blackwall said. The dragon faced down a giant, whose clumsy swings did more damage to the terrain than they did the beast.

"Your family specializes in dragon hunting, does it not?" Solas looked to Cassandra.

"You are looking for advice?" She almost laughed. "Ignore them. The dragon will go back to its nest when it is finished. The giant, if it lives, will be easy enough to outmanoeuvre."

The battle outside lasted for several hours. One by one, the party came to sit on the cave floor. At Aedhin's request, Solas built a small fire. One more spider attempted to creep onto the party but was quickly frozen in place by the mage, and shattered to pieces by Cassandra.

By the time the giant was felled, it was almost completely dark outside. The high dragon screeched again and beat its wings, taking off into the fog over the water.

"Well hopefully Scout Harding doesn't think that was us that beast just took out," Blackwall said as they gathered their things, as he tried to draw out a better mood.

A low, guttural moan echoed from deep within the cave, and he dropped his pack immediately.

"Keep that damn fire burning," the Warden whispered, and drew his sword. "Whatever you do, don't let it this cavern go dark." Aedhin and Cassandra both drew their weapons. The moan came again, followed by a hiss, much closer this time.

"Should I ask?" Aedhin dropped into a crouch.

"Darkspawn," both warriors replied in unison.

"If there's a hole, we can't leave it," Blackwall insisted, "There's too many farmers and good folk close to here. They'd never survive."

Ice formed an armour around Solas. "If we find where they're coming from, I can seal it," he promised, "But we _will_ have to go inside."

"By Andraste, it never ends." Aedhin pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth. "Let's get this over with."

The first flood of them were weak enough. But they kept coming, little groups of five or six, until in the dim light, they realized there was a ladder leading further below. Their faces were more monstrous than Aedhin ever imagined. Blighted and barely more than skeletons, with rows of sharp teeth and eyes bulging out, sinewy muscle ripping through tight, peeling skin. Veins, black and swollen stood out against their pallor complexion, anywhere the crude armour didn't cover. The sound, the smell. Andraste knew he'd never forget it. The stench of death and madness.

"We have to go down."

"Allow me."

Solas stepped forward, eyes glowing. An immolate spell exploded below on the stone. Several deepstalkers screeched in agony before they fell apart into ash. There was a hole in the cavern wall, and another ledge leading deeper into the cave. Suddenly the image of the scouts broken on the cliff came to Aedhin's mind, bearing the faces of his companions instead, piled and forgotten in the dark down below. With frustrated and furious shout, Aedhin took off at the ladder and slid down, daggers in hand.

"Herald!"

The sounds of battle began anew down in the dark, sparks flying as Aedhin's daggers crashed against the armour of the darkspawn. His companions weren't far behind him.

Solas and Blackwall shouted instructions back and forth, ones Aedhin didn't hear. He took the first slash against an armoured hurlock while Cassandra beat down the smaller ones behind him. His blades bounced almost harmlessly off the armour, but he kept slashing, ducking, diving back at it until one dagger found purchase between the plates. Aedhin drove all his strength into his wrist, and sliced the hurlock's arm clean from the elbow.

Black blood sprayed across the cavern.

Cassandra's shield was up in front of him in an instant, and the spray spattered off her shield to the cavern floor. She braced herself against the stalagmite next to her before she gave the shield a hard shove forward. It made a deafening clang against the hurlock's morning star, echoing above the chaos of battle. Aedhin took its moment of shock to roll around it, found the space between the armour plates on the other arm. The hurlock shrieked an infernal, hellish gurgle as he pushed--

Until Cassandra pierced her sword upward through its teeth. She drew back and gave the monster a hard kick. It tumbled backward over the next ledge. A whole minute passed before they heard the crack and thud of the corpse splitting apart on the rocks below.

The broken rock around them glowed green then with Fade-energy, untilSolas too glowed with power. Quickly, carefully, he replaced the rocks one by one, blocking the hole from which the darkspawn had come. Eventually, the sound of wicked cries were replaced with the sound of shifting stone, and then quiet.

"Are you mad?!"

Aedhin and Cassandra's weapons both hit the stone floor with a bang as she grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him into the wall. He grabbed at her wrist, but she pinned him down.

"You could have _died_!" she shouted, "Have you no sense of yourself?!" Her voice boomed across the cavern, echoed through the walls of the tunnel below.

"I managed just fine!" he snapped back, pushing her back. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself in a fight!"

"And what were we to do if you were made sick from jumping into the thick of them? What if they tore off your arm?!" She gained momentum back in her step and threw him into the wall a second time. "You cannot jump blind into a fight and think you can dance your way back out! Not against darkspawn!"

Aedhin's face twisted into a snarl. "Everything is fine! You're getting upset over nothing!"

"Everything is _not_ fine!" This time, she let go of him. "The Breach is still out there. Rifts are _destroying_ Thedas. You must think bigger than yourself. We all must! None of us can afford to be felled for the sake of a foolish pride!" With an agitated huff she collected her sword and shield.

"Oh, there's the truth of it!" Aedhin similarly, snatched up his daggers and flipped them into the sheaths on his back. He knew she was right, of course. Running at the enemy in a moment of panicked fury _was_ foolish. He couldn't explain it, couldn't justify it. The guilt twisted and knotted inside of him, but it didn't warrant her losing her temper on him. He was _more_ than a tool to be used for sealing the Breach. He turned to say something else, when Solas cut in.

"That's enough fighting!" Solas held a hard finality in his voice. "We are all very exhausted. Let us leave this terrible cavern and find rest up at the camp. We gain no ground by tearing into each other, especially not here." Blackwall nodded. To Aedhin he looked like he also wanted to hit him, like a furious uncle reminding him to smarten up. The Warden stared him down with disappointed eyes before he followed Solas up the ladder. Aedhin stared back unflinchingly.

Now there was just the two of them. Aedhin huffed. Cassandra made a disgusted noise from the back of her throat. Grudgingly, Aedhin gestured to the ladder for her to climb first. They stared each other down until Solas coughed suggestively from the top. Cassandra shook her head and grabbed the first rung above her. Aedhin moved to climb behind her, when the ground trembled. And then it began to shake.

He almost lost his hold as the earthquake shuddered through the mountain. Cassandra fell several rungs before she found her grip again.

Behind them, the floor fell apart into the crevice below, leaving little over a foot of space between the wall and the ledge. The magic of Solas' seal on the hole where the darkspawn had come glowed, but held in place. Above them, the stalactites began to crumble and plummet down. Cassandra, face ever set with determination, dropped down the ladder and crossed one of her legs over his to help press him against the wall. Her left arm, still gripping her shield, came to a still over both their heads.

As he realized what she was doing, Aedhin edged in as close to her as he could, and brought his arms up around either side of hers to help hold the shield steady over them. The sharp, jagged rocks crashed against the shield and bounced off in pieces.

Blackwall and Solas shouted out to them as a fissure ran jagged in the ceiling above. There was a sickening crack, and a great roar of stone sliding on stone before the giant crest above them came crashing down. Solidly wedged between the upper platform and the wall, it sealed off the way out.

In the darkness, as the earth's shuddering settled, all they could hear was the crumbling of stones echoing below and their own haggard gasps for breath.

Aedhin's heart stuttered in his throat. "Cassandra?"

"By Andraste..."

"No kidding...and your arm?"

"Fine enough."

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. Slowly, blindly, he felt along her forearm to her elbow. She sucked in a breath when he touched the joint.

"A bit over extended. Nothing terrible," she assured him, and offered a strained laugh to try and convince him.

"I'll help you lower it. The ledge ends a few inches past my toes." Squirming against the remains of the ladder and the rugged edge, he braced her elbow with both of his hands and helped her lower her arm. Gently, he coaxed the heavy metal shield out of her hand and slid it down behind his leg. She settled her arm half bent against his chest.

"Fucking _fuck_ ," he said after a moment. "Why does this shit keep happening?"

"Must you be so vulgar?" Half stretched over him, Cassandra dropped her forehead over his shoulder. "Hopefully they got out and will bring help."

"They're probably...I mean, Solas held the seal for the darkspawn."

"The Maker blesses us in small ways."

"Heh." Carefully, he dropped his left arm and circled it around her waist, in the small area where the two plates of armour met. He hooked two fingers into her beltloop and tugged her up over him so that her weight rested on his hip.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He rolled his eyes, though the expression was missed in the blackness. "Oh settle down, I'm trying to anchor us here. Use your right hand to hold what's still there on that ladder." She shifted against him slightly and they both flinched at the sound of her chestplate scraping against his. Eventually, she eased up as her fingers found a ladder rung close-by and settled against him once again. Both stood in uncomfortable silence, until Aedhin cleared his throat.

"I can't do this. I can't shut up for that long. Not here." He shook his head just a little. "Twenty questions?"

"This...this is not a game, Aedhin."

He didn't miss the very obvious hesitation in her voice. He turned his face to the side, so his forehead touched hers. "I know. I _know_. But we can't fall asleep and if we overthink, we'll fall." He paused for a moment, and swallowed thickly. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "So...twenty questions?"

He felt her smile even before she spoke.

"Fine. You first."

"Favourite book."

She twitched slightly at that, and craned her neck away. "Book?"

"Yeah. Book. Pages, words, you know, sometimes it even rhymes. And please don't say _The Chant of Light_ , my poor Chantry-scorned heart can't take it."

Cassandra laughed, for almost two minutes through. "No, no it is not the Chant. Ah...I suppose the first story I was taken with was an old Nevarran love tale. _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_? I always go back to it."

"My mother had me read that to the twins, I think, when they were little," he recalled, "In translation, of course. If I'm thinking of the right one. Nephew of the king, quest of honour. I don't remember it all, but I remember something about a green sash."

"You know it?" Was she shocked? Impressed? Both? He couldn't tell.

Aedhin gave her waist a slight squeeze. "I built a _library_ in Kirkwall. Is it that surprising?"

"I suppose not," she said after a moment of thought, fidgeting slightly before she relaxed again. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Family secret."

"You're lying."

Aedhin chuckled. "Am I? The rumour is my great-great-great-grandfather was involved with the Thieve's Guild during the first Qunari assault, and that's where he learned to fight with daggers. Been a weird family thing ever since, if it's true. Reading, math, horseback riding, and knives in the afternoon. Everyone in the family."

The light banter continued, in shallow whispers and small laughs, tense sighs when they tried to think of another question. Aedhin pressed Cassandra several times to explain her history with the Chantry until she finally relented, and told the story of how she uncovered the plot to kill the previous Divine. As she brushed off her role in the story, Aedhin found himself wondering what a fresh-faced teen Cassandra looked like, with the spark of invincibility and dramatic fire that only youth could bring. He decided he liked her much better now, with her righteous inspiration under control. A younger Cassandra might very well have killed him at the Conclave. Or maybe worse. He shivered off the thought.

As their limbs grew stiffer, knees aching, they shifted in small ways to keep the blood flowing, keep their strength up. The sound of small stones cluttering down below, echoing almost past the point of hearing, grounded them in the nearness of the danger. Aedhin was glad he wasn't standing alone. In the silence, he thought he might go mad. As their fingers and toes got colder, the reality set in that they might very well freeze to death well before starvation or exhaustion took them. Above there was no sound, no movement upon the rocks above.

It might have been a hour. It might have been six. In the blackness of the cavern, neither could tell.

As they both started to fall back into their own thoughts, Aedhin nudged her with his nose.

"Can you imagine if you were stuck here with Varric instead of me?"

"Maker, why would you say that?"

"I strive to make myself look as flattering as possible in every situation. They don't teach you Nevarran nobles that?"

"You were right. You _do_ know how to make yourself absolutely insufferable."

"Are you telling me you don't appreciate my brave tenacity flirting with you, Seeker Cassandra?"

"Oh _please_."

He smiled, wished they could see each other. He'd pay well for her expression at that moment. "Please _what_?"

"Maker preserve me. I'll throw you off this cliff myself."

He laughed again, until a chunk next to his foot broke off. The shield tipped to the side, clattering and clanging down the drop and both of them tightened their hold on each other. Cassandra gripped the fabric of his coat and he squeezed her flush to him, both holding their breath, until the final bang of the shield echoed in the pit far below. Both exhaled, a whisper of a sound in the quiet. He felt her breath on his neck, uneven, desperate, clinging for control.

Aedhin turned his cheek to her, to remind her she wasn't alone.

Their lips brushed. She froze.

Aedhin flattened his palm against the small of her back and closed the distance between them, slowly bringing his right hand over her left on his chest. He hesitated for a second, a moment of indecision, heart pounding in his ears. Then, nudging closer, _Maker be damned,_ he moved to catch her in a soft, inviting kiss.

Cassandra already turned away, and he brushed past her ear.

Face burning, he tried to catch himself.

"Everything will be okay," he said as he cleared his throat, settling back as he had been before the ledge broke, looking out into the darkness. "Andraste...will bring us home again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes on bikes! Darkspawn, earthquakes, rejected kisses?! Middle English Romance references?
> 
> I rewrote the end of this chapter probably twelve times.
> 
> Disappointed Dad (TM) Blackwall strikes again. That's what we all took from this, right?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt an unusual calm break through his exhaustion, a casual numbness in his fingers, and Luin felt both present in himself and as if he watched from above the room.

Pulsing red, and the stink of stagnant water.

He was brought back at once to Perivantium, and the prison cell in the well. He gagged on the pervasive, putrid smell of the corpses floating near the ledge. All around him, the air of grief, under an old dwarven lamp trying to find the tunnel into the temple. Pointed ears peeking out from matted, moulding hair, a haunting stare from hollowed sockets where once shone dreamer's eyes. Silver swords and white birch arrows catching pieces of the light below the water, left to be found and then forgotten forever.

A Dalish lullaby half-scratched into the stone.

The very small chains where the still rotting body of a child curled up against the corner.

Luindir clapped a hand over his nose and mouth and shut his eyes, thought of the Green Dales and the broad spanse of forest and jungle stretching across the Marches. Bright, fragrant fruit and flowers, pinks and oranges dotting between shades of emerald, the sweetness of the blooms mixed with sandalwood and ocean spray. The water was up to his waist now, and he turned his mind instead on the pool that the halla loved in the shadowed outskirts of Wycome. Under a clearing in the bright summer sun, he pictured the aravels, intense cerulean, and the strings of hand-carved glass beads glittering from their canvases. Nearby, the smell of a brew beginning to bubble over, and the tiny hand that cooled it with the lightest touch of winter.

A hand under his arm hauled him upright, and out of the memory.

"Are you all right?" Forehead beaded with sweat, brows creased with lines Luindir hadn't noticed before, Dorian stared him down under the glow of red lyrium jutting out of the ceiling, grip firm. Luindir's limbs shuddered and shook, no matter how he tried to control his breaths, how he tried to tense himself still.

"A memory," was all Luindir managed in reply, stumbling between elvhen and the common, "Ma s-- th-thank you, I...will recover soon." He stared first at the tiny, beautiful embroidery on Dorian's sleeve to ground his racing mind, then down at himself, looking for injury. Eventually his gaze moved around the room. Not Perivantium, but a dungeon nonetheless, half filled with water that trickled in from the fissures caused by...the lyrium? It grew out of the very walls, and where its glow touched, festered a growing sense of horror.

A headache throbbed from the side of his head. Luindir touched the back of his ear, where a sizeable lump and a scattering of new scabs formed. He couldn't recall when or how he'd been hit, but shook off Dorian and pressed himself as far away as he could.

"Rather pleasant, wouldn't you say?" Dorian looked about. "If I had to wager a guess - just another thing I'm very skilled at - I would say we're in the dungeon in Redcliffe."

"That can't be right." Luindir pulled himself up against the wall, reached back and felt the reasuring weight of his longbow behind him. "With this much... _lyrium_?" The last word came in a whisper.

"It's not just a question of _where_ , my good elf, as it is _when_." After several moments of silence, staring at each other, Dorian gave an exasperated sigh. "Come on, catch up. Alexius tried to send us out of time. I think I stopped him."

"You _think_. How reassuring." Luinder pulled the bow forward, gripping its leather and bone haft. "How very like Tevinter to develop an awful tool as that."

"So much water in this dungeon! Must explain all of that _salt_ ," the other mage drawled, "If you're feeling better, we'd best move on and find out what's happened. I'd garner that if we can confront Alexius and get our hands on that amulet I can get us right back to where he tried to kill us and maybe turn our luck around."

Without waiting, Dorian turned away from Luindir and began to the barred door, where a rusty lock hung corroded and fused to the metal. Dorian showed no hesitation as he heated the padlock and then froze the mechanism with a pulse of frost magic. The lock clunked as it fell open and then hit the water with a bubbling _thump_! sound. Cradling the sore spot, Luindir followed after him. He felt simultaneously nauseous and anxious, as if he'd forgotten something very important, but couldn't place it, couldn't possibly think of what it could be. Heaps of skeletons in the corners brought back flashes of the well, and more than once he had to pinch at the earrings along his left ear to bring himself back to the moment, to keep his stomach settled.

The arrows on his back made the smallest reassuring clatters as the two climbed over a pile of broken stone to the next set of stairs.

Holding the bow like a quarterstaff, he felt more present by the moment as they creeped upon two armed guards near the top of the stairs. The bladed ends made quick work of them; before Dorian could finish casting an immolate spell the slender, razor sharp edges found home in the space beneath their helms and after two quick slashes both guards collapsed dead.

The blood that oozed out on the store floor was thick, congealed, and in some spurts, came out like chunks of jelly.

"These men are very sick," Luin said with a quiet despondence, the first words since they'd left the prison cell. He cleaned the bladed edges on the remains of a tapestry on the floor, lips pursed, face pale.

"Might have something to do with all this incredible natural lighting," Dorian said as he plucked a ring of keys off the man to the right. "What was Alexius' goal? How could this help Felix?" The man shook his head, muttering his thoughts out loud as they continued up through the castle. Eventually, he fell quiet. Whether he was stumped or worked out the answers, Luin could only guess.

The elf didn't care. If he never dealt with another power-hungry magister again it would be the least the Creators owed him.

The castle was a series of morphed and mutated guards, slaves, and mages. Some were changed by the lyrium. Others bore the weight of demonic abberation, chained and shrieking incoherently against their armed masters. As the pair made their way further up the tower, more voices rang out from above the stairs. Both men hesitated as a woman's voice shook the windows, shrieking out for mercy. Her voice was gutteral, wild, and she called to the Maker for strength as she cursed.

They chose to continue up the tower. Even as she stopped screaming, they kept climbing the stairs that wound up and up, and Luindir reasoned to himself that more information couldn't hurt, that maybe one person's suffering could be spared.

The lyrium looked as if it blossomed out of the very stone, like cancerous, glittering flowers connected to veins of blood red in the walls. In damp corners it piled up over itself in clusters, humming and vibrating its song of power, casting shadows around them. Luindir did his best to avoid looking directly at it, keeping fresh in his mind the aravels and their bright blue colour, and the murmured encouragement of Keeper Deshanna that carried him silent through the application of his vallaslin, and through every trial since.

Near the top of the tower they found the lifeless body of the woman from before. Half her short, dark hair was burned away, revealing a section of her scalp that had been carved off and left to rot. The scars overtop the wound shone grey. Through the swelling under the skin, there was a slight, uneven, pulsed movement -- _maggots_ , Luindir realized. He had to clap his hand over his mouth a second time to swallow back the bile that bubbled up the back of his throat at the sight of the tiny worms wiggling under the barely healed wound. Luin almost thought he recognized her, but couldn't recall where. The words 'dragon witch' were burned across her chest, and the scars across her naked body varied white and grey and purple, her face was sunken in, damaged -

"Blight," both breathed at once.

"Or something like it," Dorian mused as he reached over the desk for a pile of books. He looked over one of the journals while Luin faced the closed door with an arrow drawn.

Dorian made the smallest sound, as if he'd lost the air in his lungs all at once.

"What did you find?" Luindir asked, eyes never leaving the door.

"We've lost a year," said Dorian, moving onto the next page. "And it looks like our strapping herald went into hiding some months ago...after the empress was murdered. This Elder One marched right into Val Royeaux with an army of demons."

 _Kiaran_. "What else does it say?" Luin exhaled slowly as sweat dripped down his forehead. He swallowed and loosened his shoulders, kept his gaze steady on the door.

"Nothing that helps us any. There's a letter about them trying to draw Alexius out of the throne room before the Elder One arrives. Pardon my incredible humour but it looks like we're running tight on time to fix this." He left the papers on the desk and gripped his staff with both hands. "There's one more room at the end. Let's check there for any last evidence...maybe kill off a few zealots for good measure...then get to the throne room and demand our just dues."

Down the hall, they found the torturer - and two assistants - carving into the body of another human woman. Her face was twisted, burned, and lacerated, and her hands were wrapped in dirty bandages. Abruptly, on one side of her head, her hairline dodged back in half a crescent where black and brown stitches oozed a yellow-green pus. Above her heart, a broken Inquisition pin was still fastened to her tunic. Neither mage spoke, not even a warning, and Luin barely recalled drawing the second shot as the first mage fell to the floor backwards with an arrow sticking out from the center of his forehead.

The woman, hanging from shackles, wrapped her thighs around the back of the torturer's head, and wrenched to the side with all her strength until his neck popped and cracked. Like a doll, the man crumpled to the floor.

"Who might you be?" Body, clothes, and voice ragged, she still had the presence of mind to stare them down from where she hung.

"Dorian Pavus," said the Tevinter, usual upbeat charm ringing in his voice. "We are here to stop this mess."

Luindir was the first to reach up and unlock her from the chains. "You may call me Luindir."

"...I know you," she said to the elf after her feet hit the floor, "The herald's sister had me searching for you for months before she disappeared." Luin said nothing, just gave her a slight nod, and looked to Dorian expectantly.

"...oh! Yes, of course. We're from the past. We're going to turn it all back..." he began.

The woman put up a hand. "I don't care. Your words mean nothing."

"No, you don't understand," Dorian pressed, as the woman kicked open the chest in the corner and pulled out a bow and quiver, "Alexius has an amulet that can-"

"This is why mages cannot be trusted," she spat, "To fool with the forces of the world like they were yours to hold at all. The Maker has left us. None can stop the Elder One now. All we can do now is make him struggle to get the last of what he wants." She glared them both down, looking as if she might say something more, then pulled up her tattered hood and stole away like a shadow down the dim, lyrium-lit hall.

"Let us end this," Luindir sighed, "And hope this world never comes to pass." Down the tower they went, with a growing sense of dread, past the lyrium shattered docks and the spatters of carnage where blood magic left its mark. It was through the large, double doored gate into the courtyard where both men understood how severely outmatched they were.

Where the sky was not black, it was green, as if the Breach had bled across the horizon and poisoned out the sun. Both close and far they could hear crackling, like fire and lightning, and the small metallic ring of the Fade echoing through rifts. Occasionally, the strained shreik of a terror burst out from the towers of the castle. Hours earlier, when they crossed this courtyard under a cloudy, moonless night, the grass was thick and the flowers grew in tamed rows against Redcliffe's stone walls. Red lyrium shone like tiny fireflies among long-dead bushes, and where patches of grass still remained, it curled yellow and brittle and dry. Bones, fragmented beyond recognition, littered the courtyard in small piles.

Luindir overheard Dorian begging Andraste for protection under his breath.

The demons under the Fade rifts in the courtyard proved the hardest; eventually both mages broke into a hard sprint and Luindir sealed them inside the castle by bringing a shield of ice up over the door.

Within the castle proper, the situation wasn't much improved.

The throne room was indeed sealed off, with a puzzle, and no magic could make it budge. Dodging demons, mages, and soldiers alike, eventually they came across a spellbinder bearing a medal of red lyrium, from which he drew incredible power.

It took nine ice arrows and a final wrench of death magic to kill him. As Dorian tore the medal from the spellbinder's neck, Luin drove the longbow down through the corpse's throat. Blood gurgled out in a stream onto the floor, from which Luin casually sidestepped away. He felt an unusual calm break through his exhaustion, a casual numbness in his fingers, and Luin felt both present in himself and as if he watched from above the room. He blinked a few times, but the panic and the dread was gone. Absently, he fiddled with his collar fastenings and watched for intruders from the door.

Dorian glanced at him, a gleam of unease in his eyes, before he held up the medallion between them.

"Shall we see if this fits the puzzle?"

"My stock of arrows matches my patience." Luindir wiped spatters of ichor off his face, then stared at his ungloved fingers where the blood of battle caked around his cuticles and under his nails. "I'd like to go...home." As he turned away back down the long corridor, he ran his fingertips over the feathered shafts. Four, five, six. Not much at all, at least for how he'd rather fight.

He supposed the magister deserved worse than a Dalish arrow in his throat, anyway.

He barely heard Dorian explaining the marvel of how the medallian had been forged, did not care for the quiet song that hummed in the medal or even how the door lit up with bright red carvings, magic stolen from the elves long ago. His blood thrummed in his ears, a steady, soft, and cushioned rhythm. Luin looked through the door and into Perivantium's prison wells again, but instead of his cursed kin, Felix stared back from the throne with a vacant, black gaze. Beside him, his father mourned, clutching the silver amulet like his last bastion of faith.

"May the dread wolf pursue you eternally for what you have done here," Luindir whispered gently. He planted the bow firm into the mouldy carpet, and drew back an arrow with quiet, angry confidence. Dorian called out for him to stop, but he felt the sound slow, beat by beat, as winter's vicious breath swirled around his fingers.

A rift opened between them.

From it reached one hand, and then another, as a demon peeled itself out of the Fade.

" _What is it you desire?_ " it asked, rumbling and seductive as it shimmered into form, " _Let me help you find it._ " Behind it, the Fade invited Luindir, with the sound of wooden chimes and glittering glasswork, and the light of a setting autumn sun reflecting off the waves of the ocean.

"It cannot be found," Luin said, raising both brows, and let go. The arrow froze solid everything in its path and ripped through the demon and the rift, straight into the chest of the magister's son. Ice and frost exploded around him and cascaded across the floor, crystallizing Felix and Alexius in place on the throne. Snowflakes settled in a soft glitter around them.

"Are you mad?! If you break that amulet we'll both die here!" Dorian shouted, parrying off a blast of energy from the rift with his staff.

"Then you best reverse all of this before I run out of arrows and truly demonstrate the magic of my people," Luin warned, voice gentle and resigned, drawing back a second shot. This one he aimed for the demon, which twisted and writhed as it tried to free itself from the ice. Dorian took off running toward Alexius and his son, cursing under his breath. He dove under a swipe from the demon as it broke free of the ice holding it down.

His hands nearly closed around the tiny silver necklace when Alexius coiled back and disappeared, materializing again to Luin's left.

"You took my son from me!" he bellowed out, fire erupting from his palms.

With absolute serenity, Luindir pivoted to the side and released the arrow. It shot just slightly awry over Alexius' shoulder, but frost edged the metal armour sewn into the magister's coat and glimmered on the throne room floor. Luin held out the longbow defensively before him and muttered several words very quickly. Up rose a shield of magic that absorbed the flames that Alexius threw toward him.

"A thousand Tevinter sons still wouldn't be enough recompense," the elf finally answered, eyes only half focused as he stepped back to crouch defensively, bow held forward, bladed edges out. Then he lunged forward and Alexius dodged the first strike, the second, but tripped back on the ice that stuck to the moth-eaten rug on the floor.

With hardly any effort at all, the blade flitted in the space underneath the magister's arm, tip poking out just barely between the ribs on his back. Alexius stuttered a curse before he coughed up a bubble of blood.

The amulet barely hit the floor before Luin swiped his foot out and kicked it at Dorian, who ducked around poison-laden swipes from the demon.

With a single, hard pull, Luindir freed his blade from the magister and took off running toward Dorian. "I can give you only a few minutes!" he warned, summoning up a wall of ice before he skidded back from the rift, "After that, I can make no promises!"

He flicked back the lid from a metal vial on his belt and put it between his teeth, drawing his third arrow. He tilted his chin back just enough for the lyrium potion to trickle back into his throat before he let the charged arrow fly free. He couldn't hear the vial when it hit the floor, as the demon screamed and cursed them both. Behind it, the Fade showed an image of Denerim, then Wycome, and finally the outskirts of Minrathous, all razed in fire and darkspawn. Fourth arrow. Fifth arrow. Luin tried to hold a ward but the demon shrugged it off and exploded Luindir's wall of ice with black fire.

"Nothing like a little bit of healthy pressure!" Dorian called back, pressing his back to Luin's as the amulet lifted from his palms and glowed. Beyond them both, the room grew hot and began to shimmer. The magic started first as a bead, then a window, before the portal opened fully and showed both men flinching under Alexius' spell. Dorian fisted the back of Luindir's coat and yanked him through.

Luin was vaguely aware of his ears popping, the sensation of falling, as black and silver claws raked across his neck and chest, the metal and fabric sizzling away under an indigo acid. He smelled the acrid fume of his own skin burning long before he felt it, now in front of Alexius and Felix. Behind them, six soldiers still bled out on the marble where his arrows found purchase in their throats...minutes earlier?

His sixth and final arrow clattered harmlessly to the floor as the poison bloomed across his front, shoulders tensing and arms seizing, fingers locked in a vicegrip on the haft of his bow. He dropped down to one knee and curled both arms in toward his chest, trying to pull through the Veil a spell of healing, but the magic fizzled away at the tips of his fingers, which felt both hotter and colder with every passing second.

The magister fell forward with a sudden thud, Felix looking horror-stricken behind him with a vase between both hands.

"Take it and get out," he urged Dorian, kneeling down to cradle his father's head. "Get as far away as you can, before anyone else notices!"

"Drink and run," came Dorian's voice beside Luindir. He tilted up the elf's chin and poured a numbing potion back between his lips, while the hand on Luin's neck radiated warmth and comfort from his shoulders all the way down his spine. And then he was standing, the Tevinter supporting him around the shoulders.

"Stay safe," was the only thing he caught as they fled.

The dark halls of Redcliffe castle all blurred together as tapestry and grey-black stone. His feet felt clumsy, leaden, as Dorian led them through a tunnel under the armoury, into the darkness underground. He asked Dorian several times to explain what was going on, that his forehead felt hot and his neck was cold, but he could never make out what Dorian said back.

"I don't speak Tevene," Luindir sighed as they tripped up a final set of rotten wooden stairs, "But Aerin does, talk to her..."

Dorian burst apart the door in front of them with force magic. A windmill creaked and groaned nearby. Luindir looked up into the blinding periwinkle of mid-morning before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed forward in Dorian's grip, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write. Nothing like a near-death experience to solidify friendship, right? Maybe Dorian will get to unlock Lavellan's Tragic Backstory if this keeps up. 
> 
> On a less serious note, let's all picture Dorian trying to haul a fully armed elf to safety on his own strength and Luin's not even able to witness the colourful complaining? It gets me through these chilly autumn nights. Dorian whining about menial labour delights me almost as much as Disappointed Dad Blackwall.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thought herself standing next to a stranger with the face of a ghost.

Aedhin's cabin stood in the middle of the town, close to many of the other permanent residences, and its proximity to so many other buildings made it seem warmer, safer. Though Josephine offered her beautiful room inside the Chantry to Kiaran, nightmares of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall haunted her each night. After pleading insistantly to stay with the other mages in the camp, her brother's advisors finally acquiesced that it would at least be appropriate for the Trevelyans to stay together. A quickly built wall and a second cot were brought into the cabin and the furniture rearranged to create separate rooms. Josephine and Vivienne claimed it was more for the sake of appearance to their dignitary guests. Vivienne specifically encouraged Kiaran to think of the long-term benefits of living to her class. Kiaran wondered if anyone knew the truth.

At first, she found herself restless and unable to still, constantly glancing around the shadows cast by the firelight. She hadn't ever slept alone in her own room before. Even when they still lived at the estate, she and Donovon took turns creeping the halls to stay together in the night, so as not to lose each other when they found themselves in the Fade.

In the Circle, she never rose in rank enough to earn her own quarters and in Kirkwall's slums she shared space with several other women pressed tightly at her side. By her second night in the cabin, she looked favourably on the solitude and the privacy, the protection of her own four walls and the latch on the door. As the autumn descended on Haven in the form of light snow and the faintest northern chills, the coziness appealed to her the most.

But its location also meant she heard the noise of every movement, clatter, and shift in the town.

With a heavy quilt around her shoulders, Kiaran cupped her hands around the window and peered through as Master Harritt shouted for several of his smiths by name, and Ser Rylen roused engineer, templar, and mage alike to answer his orders. If she had to guess, based on the dying blaze in the fireplace, it was a little after midnight, maybe, but torches soon lit up the center of Haven as the engineers ran to meet Harritt, and the mages and templars headed off to the stables. A handful of the younger, stronger scouts convened around Leliana's tent holding lamps and torches. Even Dennet's voice joined the pandemonium as he called for help in saddling his horses.

The mountains, from where she could see, slept dark and undisturbed.

In her half-asleep daze, she wondered what crazy routine could have Commander Cullen going mad at such a late hour when it dawned on her.

She snatched her hood and her scarf and stumbled into her boots, running up the hill toward the Chantry, fearing the worst, praying for the best.

Was it mages? Chantry-paid assassins? A thousand possibilities flashed behind her eyes of what could have happened to Aedhin. The templars, lashing out against the heresy and his alignment with Montsimmard? Their own family, collecting him against his will to lock him up in Ostwick until the templars and mages solved their differences? As she ran, she was ignored, and as the small voice inside her whispered its fears for her own safety, she reminded herself that she was no stranger to hiding in dark corners.

Kiaran slipped in through the door and shut it quickly behind her. Down the hall, only a few scant candles lit the way and she watched Josephine close the War Room door, dressed in her nightclothes and a thick fur robe. Swallowing the tears that stung at the corners of her eyes, Kiaran begged her heart to still as she crept toward the door. No one else moved in the Chantry, no sign of the ever-present Mother Giselle, or the enchanter Minaeve working over her table. First pressing one hand, then the other, and finally her ear to the wall, Kiaran held her breath and listened.

"Then divert them, Josephine!" Cullen cursed, and slammed his hand on the table. "Kristofer and Sheridan are joining Vivienne and Luccia on the trip up the coast with a few engineers and Harritt's blasted excavation contraption!"

The ambassador and the First Enchanter's replies were considerably more subdued and she couldn't catch any of what they said.

"Dennet's horses can handle a hard ride north." Though not nearly as loud as the commander, Rylen's voice carried through the wall, steady, reassuring. "Even if Master Solas can move the wreckage and get them out, they'll be in no condition to fight or defend themselves for the trip home. Two different dragons and a whole hatch of wyverns has been reported by Scout Harding, and more darkspawn have appeared on the far western coast."

"Darling, please," Vivienne's voice suddenly raised over Josephine's, "Aleaume Fétique's oddities match his coin. He's an artist and a well-known collector of rarities. Take him up the mountain to the Temple, should he arrive before we return. There are enough Fade-charged remnants there that he might entertain himself for hours without complaint."

"We cannot send nobility from Val Royeaux up the mountain!"

Kiaran winced to Josephine's high-pitched yell, but caught, "Oh give the man a corpse to exhume and he'll eat right out of your hand like a little gilded bird--"

"Enough!" The commandor's roar broke so loud over the arguing that the statues outside in the hall shook, and Kiaran flinched into her scarf. "The decision is already made. We will not risk the Herald's life over hurt feelings from some Orlesian! Rylen, see that they're equipped to leave within the hour. Leliana's men have already begun to move!"

"Ser!"

Kiaran flattened against the wall in the shadows as the war room door swung open and flooded light into the hall. Rylen, followed by Vivienne, her assistant, and two templars, walked straight ahead. Vivienne and Luccia turned left toward Adan's home while the templars flanked behind Rylen on either side. Someone in the war room tugged the door shut once more.

Josephine and Cullen's arguing began again, but this time in quieted voices and cautious apologies. She caught only a few phrases - _elfroot, Orzammar_ , and _King Alistair_.

Kiaran stared up to the shadowed face of Andraste as it peered down on her, candlelight shadows flickering across her face. For a moment, it looked like the figure smiled, or maybe she cried, and after a long and hard moment Kiaran turned her gaze away, and buried her face in her scarf.

 _You deserve far less than my other brother_ , Kiaran thought, bitterness swelling anew in her heart.

She waited in the shadow next to the decorative armour until the war room went completely silent. The door opened and the ambassador held onto the door handle, other hand clutching closed her robe.

A heavy, hard sigh came from the commander. "Yes... Get some rest, Lady Josephine. Our problems begin tenfold in the morning."

"I agree. We will approach our other concerns with a clear mind after some sleep. Do try to get a little, commander." She nodded at him and stepped out, eyes down, padding with short strides directly back to her room across the hall.

 _Other problems?_ Kiaran wondered to herself, and it dawned on her then she had no idea what Aedhin was actually _doing_ as the figurehead of the Inquisition. She knew about the stability in the Hinterlands but outside of southern Ferelden, she never asked around about what they actually attempted to accomplish outside their current reach. Get power, close the Breach. She hadn't thought of anything else.

It might have been an hour before she heard Cullen move again, muttering to himself as he tapped the wooden figures into different areas of the map stretched across the table. Finally, he heaved a hard and weary sigh before the lamps in the room were snuffed out and he stepped out of the door. Arms wrapped around herself, Kiaran watched as he stepped away and then paused to glance back.

 _Templar sense_ , she reminded herself. _They know when we're looking._

Their eyes locked and at first he seemed startled, like he'd seen a demon, before her name registered on his lips. "Lady Kiaran! What are you...well, not that it matters, the Chantry is unlocked and it's obvious by now that things are...ah..."

"What happened to Aedhin?" she asked, voice cooler, more confidant, far more steady than she felt. She realized this was the first time she'd seen him without armour, almost didn't see the layers of only tunic and soft leather hidden beneath his massive fur mantle.

At first he seemed like he was about to placate her with a lie, and Cullen looked away as he crossed his arms. "There was an earthquake," he began, choosing each word with a careful pause, "Cassandra and your brother were trapped under rubble inside an old entrance to the Deep Roads."

"The Deep Roads?" she echoed. "As in?"

"Solas is confidant his seal will hold," Cullen continued, avoiding her question, "But excavating it may require men and equipment the Storm Coast does not have. Until the next raven arrives, this is all we know."

He waited, avoiding her eyes as she digested what he shared. Assassins and dragons almost seemed better. She was there when Ostwick shut out the refugees from Ferelden. She watched from the windows of the Gallows as the Kirkwall guard turned away those who lacked the money passage into the city.

In Darktown, she listened from the cover of shadow as the bodies of the first refugees were dropped down into the empty mines, one by one, hidden forever in the miasma, ignored, as Marchers did with stranger's woes. Those months she spent assisting Anders' clinic. She remembered breathing into a scratchy wool scarf and trying not to cry, while blighted survivors of the expeditions choked on their own blood as they dreamt of better times.

Her legs felt weak and she looked up, to see the shadows on Andraste's face twist into an expression of torment, mouth drawn, eyes long and dark, and she glared back with all the hatred she'd ever felt.

"Haven is as safe as it gets," Cullen's deep voice broke her from her panicked train of thought, "But I'll not listen to your brother lecture me when he returns that I let his sister wander alone in the dark." Kiaran glanced back, and he held his ungloved hand out to her. In the dim lighting, she could see scars and callouses along the tips of his fingers, and short, brittle nails. No one had ever offered to walk her in the night before. She heard of such a thing, a gentleman's generosity, in stories, especially those sent by her sister Etain when she was a little girl. But in her life mages were the danger, and they did not need escorts except to go back to their towers.

She reached out at first, and then pulled her hand back to herself.

"A pilgrim town in the middle of a frozen valley doesn't frighten me," she said plainly.

He seemed surprised at her denial, and then the light of understanding came to his honey eyes. Upon him came an expression she couldn't read, maybe sarcastic, or maybe sad. Cullen withdrew his hand.

"Does anything frighten you?" he asked, and to his credit, he tried to sound a little more cheerful.

"I don't know anymore," she admitted, almost before he finished speaking, "Breaking out of the Gallows, it..." Kiaran watched a story of emotions cross Cullen; shame, understanding, and then a flash of a familiar cold indifference before a weighted guilt hung in his gaze. She regretted bringing up Kirkwall.

"It..." she trailed off. "...taught me that I...could be...that I could survive." She stepped past him, fidgeting with the clasp on her cloak and chewing on the inside of her cheek. She chided herself on her rudeness, _Haven is supposed to mean something completely different_. She whirled back around to face him.

"But," Kiaran began again, "That was a lonely time. I...think I would appreciate the company." This time she couldn't guess what was behind his serious expression as he moved in step beside her as they left the Chantry. They walked the long way around, past Adan's cottage and the tiny tavern, avoiding the scout tents clustered in the center and running the path alongside the Chantry.

Neither spoke.

As they approached the cottage, boots crunching through the snow, Kiaran thought back to the last time Cullen walked next to her. In front of her, actually, with his lieutenant in the rear, after her destruction magic tomes were found and confiscated. She remembered feeling the pulse of lyrium from both their hands, the unspoken threat, the silence it promised if she reacted, fought back, challenged the Knight-Commander's rule.

She remembered exactly the strangled, hateful, helpless emotions bundling in her throat. The frightened, impressed, awestruck stares of her peers, pretending not to look from shadowed corners, grateful to not be the focus of the Knight-Captain's ire. _You haven't been made Tranquil yet because of the Bann's comfortable patronage, but don't push your luck_. She remembered a disgusted, twisted sneer as the lieutenant shoved her into her room and latched the door on the outside, _maybe this will remind you of why you are here_ , but glancing over, she struggled to picture it on him. It wore well then on the Knight-Captain's face, but now, not his, not this man next to her.

Rather, as the snow began to lazily drift from the murky purple sky, she thought herself standing next to a stranger with the face of a ghost, and horrified, she wondered if others saw the same in her. Her breath caught. A revenant, a memory, a hysteric teenager throwing fire and lightning from dark alleys in an age of aggression, the same face but different features, dissonant, dissociated, _do I trust what I see or what I have seen?_

"Lady Kiaran?" Cullen lifted a brow expectantly as they stopped in front of her door. She didn't know how long they'd been standing there as she stared wide-eyed horror at him.

He attempted a reassuring smile, but it fell short, didn't quite meet the strained and exhausted look in his eyes. "I know you're worried about your brother but...we're doing everything that we can."

"I...I know," she said, backing to the door, fumbling with the handle, "I know, and...thank you. For telling the truth. And the walk. Um." She took a deep breath and stared at him, halfway between relieved and confused, "That's it. Thank you. Good night." And before anymore could be said she shut the door and turned the latch, all but ran to her cot. She pulled the blankets over her head and curled up into a tight little ball, but sleep would not come until the light of dawn lit up over the mountain valley.

 

* * *

 

"I just want you to know I did not ask Josephine or Leliana, and I definitely did not talk to the First Enchanter before she left," she began that afternoon, arms crossed. To Cullen it looked like she tried to make herself look bigger, more powerful. He remembered a time like that, too, and inwardly he both smiled and winced, when had he gotten this _old_?

"Meaning you've come up with something your brother would certainly have reason to be upset about?" he countered, an elbow resting easy on the long hilt of his sword. Her displacement among the Inquisition made her a nuisance, and somewhere on that line her focus turned on him. This became a daily anticipation, where she followed him around and pestered him with questions. Today, it was later than usual, but for once she dressed nicer with her hair plaited smoothly over one shoulder. The drawn posture and rare, wide-eyed vulnerability from last night were gone, replaced with a much more familiar and reassuring tone of command.

Should he be more wary that he expected exactly this approach? He supposed it was only of very few blessings that came from that time. Cullen couldn't decide if it was better or worse that she was more poised, more precise.

"Aedhin isn't here," Kiaran pointed out, a hint of petulance in her tone, "So that's his problem later. When he's dug out. But!" She took a deep breath and nodded out to the templars and recruits training. "I was listening to you complain about how they're not trying hard enough to master the techniques."

Cullen lifted both brows, about to defend himself, but she also...wasn't wrong. "Yes," he agreed after some pause, "I expect full passion and dedication whether the battle is real or practice."

"I bet they'd learn real fast if you had mages training them with combat magic."

 _We aren't going hunting apostates_ , he almost said until her actual suggestion dawned on him. He had certainly thought of it. Back when he was a boy, the Circles partnered with the Order specifically for this kind of training, but after the breakout of the war...well, he and Cassandra agreed it wasn't worth bringing back that trauma for either side of their recruits.

"Absolutely not," he said with a shake of his head, "Feelings are bitter enough without forcing confrontation for the sake of practice."

"I'm not talking about other mages. I'm talking about me!" She uncrossed her arms and put both hands on her hips. "Trevelyan this, honour that, lead by example, et cetera right? Rather than involve the others, I can do it to _show_ everyone we can work together. _Right_?"

Cullen shook his head again. "I'm not sure that's the best..."

"Keeping everyone separated is the same thing as the Circle!" She stepped around him to try and catch his gaze. "But demons use magic and the rifts spit out demons. Do you think the Tevinter cultists are going to go easy? I saw the slave lists in Redcliffe, and I heard what the magister's son said to my brother. I can _help_."

"And what happens when one of you is grievously injured while practicing?" Cullen asked, voice hard. "Careless injury could mean life or death. Reduced numbers due to unnecessary injury affects all those men and women sent out to support the Inquisition." He moved to walk away, and then paused. "I am not dismissing the idea outright. But with the delicate situation of garnering support, this needs much more thorough planning to be executed." She looked like she might argue more so he put up a hand. "That's the finality of this discussion. Should things change, I will call for you."

Though her shoulders dropped, her hazel eyes flared to life, and he was brought back to a dozen similar arguments back in Kirkwall. Though lines of horror edged the corners, her gaze was the same as back then, the same brow lifted in challenge, dangerous mischief all but turning in promise through a narrow slitted stare.

Cullen sympathized with her helpless frustration, he really did. He was a man of action. A problem arose? He found a way to solve it. It was why he worked so well with Cassandra and Leliana. But throwing the Herald's own blood under templar blades for the sake of combat practice was at the very least wildly inappropriate, even with the best of planning.

A cold sweat foretold a tension headache for the afternoon, as Cullen turned away from her ire and headed back toward Lysette's tent, to discuss a new rotation of drills for the seasoned soldiers. Both the vexation and the surprise at her sharp, stubborn argument brought a wave of nostalgia, but not the friendly kind, and it sat like a jagged lump of ice in his stomach. As he detailed his ideas to Lysette, half distracted, he pictured the various outcomes.

Templars with scorched skin, shock numbness in the nerves, cracked armour they didn't have the resources to repair. Herself or other mages collapsed with migraines and seizures from magic neutralized too quickly, too brutally. The Chantry, further agitated by their actions: _is this what you try to prove by mages and templars working together so openly_?

Or far worse, either side getting lost in the memory of war and survival and the results of that: desperate blood-summons in a haze of fear, limbs cut from the joint, abominations tearing through the camp. An image of Kinloch formed in front of him and Cullen found anchor in the polished glint of his gauntlets. Barring worser scenarios, they'd have to tranquilize anyone that showed even a hint of sensitivity to the Breach's influence and then the battle between the mages and templars would ignite anew, sundering the Inquisition from all of its defenses.

Then they'd have to face the Breach alone.

At his side he gripped the sword and made himself steady leaning on Lysette's table. It wasn't a misguided idea but the risks incredibly overshadowed the benefits, and his responsibility to the Inquisition was to protect the lives of its people, to minimize the risks. The hatred in one young woman, Herald's sister or not, be damned. She'd have to find another way.

It was indeed a noble thought, but noble thoughts did not end wars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have tagged this "Slow Burn (Because Everyone Is Angry All The Time)"
> 
> The rollercoaster of Kirkwall Emotions feat. flashbacks of The Happiest Place On Earth.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please don't fill my last waking moments with your mouth blaspheming," she sighed. "Anything else, please..."
> 
> He gave a wicked chuckle.

Their only indication of time had been the full numbing of their feet, the throbbing ache in their knees, and the echoing growls of hunger and wrenching pain in their stomachs. Then the aftershocks began, small trembles creaking and groaning inside the mountain. With each rumble they shifted their focus to the far wall, where Solas had sealed the darkspawn tunnel. From what they could hear, nothing fell, and only silence followed.

With tremendous effort the two managed to sink down and sit side by side on the ledge, legs hanging over the precipice. Aedhin wished out loud he'd been the son born with magic prowess. He had his left arm looped behind Cassandra, resting on the steel crest of the plated armour on her hips, and kept his right busy with picking at the crusted salt and mud on his trousers. Cassandra's right fist curled loose around one of the ladder rungs still held fast in the wall, but her injured left arm remained bent across her lap. She hadn't mentioned it since they first took off her shield, but the swelling felt worse, somehow. She didn't feel the lightheadedness of lost blood so the Seeker brushed off its severity, but she wished the cold settling in their bones could stop the hot, throbbing pain from the joint.

When she shivered, the Herald tried to bring them closer but the space was already tight. Cassandra tried to tell him she appreciated the effort, but the words twisted tight in her dry throat.

She lost count of how many prayers she'd made, both verbal and in thought, to deliver them from the cavern. If they were anywhere closer to Highever or the Frostbacks, she never would harbour such doubt in her heart. As far north and west as they were on the Storm Coast, it would take two days of non-stop riding to get men and equipment even to the outskirts, if they weren't attacked on the road and the horses kept their health.

"If we had at least some light, we could play charades," Aedhin laughed, but it was poisoned with bitterness and exhaustion. "That sounds like something Varric would put in one of his books."

"Charades on the brink of a deadly fall?" She gave a small huff, almost a chuckle, "That does sound like the dwarf's style." Her own voice, ragged and worn, sounded unfamiliar, uncomfortable to her. They lapsed into quiet again. Cassandra tried to think of something else to say - anything - to keep him engaged, to keep them both awake.

"I remember seeing you briefly in Kirkwall when my brother sent the family guard," Aedhin said, first to break the silence again, "What were you doing there?"

At first instinct, she bristled, wanted to tell him she couldn't reveal such information. But, that wasn't the truth anymore, was it? "We were looking for the Champion, Hawke," she said, "At Leliana's suggestion, Justinia wanted the Champion's help to lead the Inquisition." Then, she frowned, turned to him. "Do _you_ know where he went?"

Aedhin huffed, "I've never even met him." She could hear the annoyance through his voice, too. "By the time I'd settled everything with the Viscount-regent and the infrastructure was stabilized...Lochlan and I were more concerned with recovering his projects for the city. Then I heard from one of Lochlan's girls that a mage like my sister left Kirkwall on the east road, with smugglers, but I couldn't leave until the library was finished. Then once it was, Rodhain came to collect me."

"Collect you?" she repeated.

Aedhin shrugged. "One of the girls found ten or so kids from the Circle hiding in the slums, some injured. I paid for clothes and a caravan to get them out of Kirkwall for a few weeks until the ships began sailing back to Highever. One of _my_ paid servants let my brother know and it all blew up from there." He drummed his fingers against his leg before he continued.

"I...probably shouldn't share this, but my father put in a lot of work to have Kiaran and Donovon written out. Our family's never had magic recorded in the line before, even with our roots in Tevinter, and that was an important factor in our relationship with the Chantry. It's...it's a big deal, in Ostwick, because the Chantry means everything, but your family can be forced to forfeit land or fortune to keep status when there's magic involved." Now he held a tremor in his voice, part anger, part sadness, and it made sense then to Cassandra why Kiaran's venemous distrust of her brother never quite shook off, even within the safety of Haven's old wooden walls.

"Your father disowned his own children?" she asked after some pause, voice quieter, gentler, and she tried not to sound as horrified as she felt.

"The day they were taken, I think," Aedhin admitted, "But I was so stuck in my own grief of...of.." He cleared his throat and it took him a long while to continue. She waited, without saying anything. She barely moved.

"Of losing them and my mother in the same couple of months, I..." He coughed, hard, and smoothed his free hand over his face. "I was ignorant, then. Absorbed in myself. But they must have known. After what happened to our brother I penned Kiaran letters under every secret name I could think of but I never heard back. When I finally got in contact with a friend in the Order, he said she was gone." His grip around her tightened for a moment and then he let her go. Cassandra felt then as if he were miles away from her. She moved her injured arm over to gently touch his knee.

"I don't want to talk about Ostwick or the Blight anymore," Aedhin said, flinching at her touch, "All it does is make me furious."

"I understand," she said, wishing she knew the right words to soothe him, but she was not a woman of gentle consolation. She tried to speak again, to change the subject, but her attempts fell flat asshe scrambled for the right things to say, and he became stuck in his angry thoughts. Cassandra wondered what Josephine might say to him, but truly, she had no idea. Cassandra was a Seeker, and she so loved and honoured such a title because of her own forthrightedness, fearlessness in addressing anything the way it needed to be addressed. Calming and placating was a job for another woman, but the perhaps the Maker would acknowledge her for trying.

She didn't realize sleep crept over her again until her head was on his shoulder and he began shaking her awake. She sat upright, spine straight, breathing hard as her heart thudded and her whole body shook from cold.

"Maker, I can't believe I...thank you," she stammered, followed by an unsteady exhale.

"If we sleep, this damned wet cold will take us," he reminded her, turning just a little to try and bring her more under his arm. As his nose brushed against her ear she realized he too was as cold as ice. Holding herself steady on the ladder rung, she turned to the side and swung both of her legs over his to tuck in further into his embrace. She tried not to smirk at his grunt of surprise.

"This is exactly _not_ how I pictured getting you into my arms," he teased.

"Keep trying," she managed to retort, and felt a half welcomed, half resented warmth bloom across her face. Was she that deprived? Had it been so long that a little survival-driven attention in the dark was all it took to fluster her? She admonished herself internally with the promise of punitive training with Cullen once they made it through. _If we make it through_ , purred the intrusive thought, and Cassandra tried to shake it away by shaking her head.

"Let me just ask the spiders to make this a little cozier."

"By the Maker do not invite that upon us!" she hissed, but her movements were gentle and slow as she folded her injured arm closer to her and laid her head on his chest. He rubbed her arm soothingly and rested his head over hers. Both sighed, almost at the same time, in part frustration, mostly resignation.

Never still, Aedhin drummed his fingers against her arm.

"I'm...sorry, for raising my voice earlier."

"What brought that up?" she asked, reflecting back on the moment and the flash of white-hot anger that possessed her then. Did she not curse first? She was sure she attacked him first, not the other way around.

"I'm not going to pretend we might not die here," he murmured, all trace of both humour and desperation gone from his voice. "I'd like to leave with at least one or two less regrets." She felt her reply die behind her lips, but he continued, "And then, wherever we end up, I'm going to punch the Maker in his holy face..."

"Please don't fill my last waking moments with your mouth blaspheming," she sighed. "Anything else, please..."

He gave a wicked chuckle. "I could think of a few th--"

A gurgling moan echoed in reply from the caverns below, followed by the scraping of metal on stone, and a chorus of grunts and squeaks.

Both of them stopped breathing and she felt the panic surge, moved to twist from Aedhin to get the small knife strapped to her thigh. He held her fast to him.

"There's nothing we can do," he whispered, taking her face in his hand and pressing his forehead to hers just as he did earlier. "Be quiet. Don't think about it."

"But they take--"

"Shhh," he said, "We just need to be silent."

"No, Aedhin," she shook her head, "I've seen what they turn survivors into, it's, it's..." Was it fury, or was it fear? She couldn't live with herself if she didn't at least try to protect him from that fate, and Andraste forgive her, she'd kill them both if it meant sparing him from seeing what the darkspawn could do to them, could do to her...

"Cassandra." His voice, barely louder than a breath, repeated her name. "Cassandra."

"I cannot," she insisted, "The least I can do is--"

"Cassandra." He put his thumb over her lips. "Shut up. We can't climb down. Maybe they can't climb up. Stay quiet."

Her body stilled, but she wished he could see her eyes, see how much it killed her not to be ready to fight them off when they found their way up the side of the wall. She broke one of her wrists away and pulled the knife out anyway, set it hard in her grip, though her fingers were stiff and swollen and cold. She pulled her face away from his and leaned in tight against the cliff wall, ready.

_By the Maker, I will not die without spilling their putrid blood, too._

His bravado faded as they heard the scrambling in the stones below, huffs and gurgles as stone was chipped away far beneath them. She felt him grip her tighter, nearly pinching her knees as he tried to pull her away from the edge.

Dust and loose stone tumbled off the ledge, bouncing, echoing as they dropped into the abyss below.

The moans turned into a cackling, threatening roar and the clattering below became a crazed frenzy as they tried to find a path in the cliff, to find their way up the sheer drop.

"We need to stand," Cassandra urged, leaning back, hauling herself to her feet by pulling herself up against the ladder rungs. She found her footing again and reached down, felt along Aedhin's shoulder until he gripped her arm and slowly pulled himself back to standing. She felt simultaneously like she might collapse, light-headed and hungry and weary, but also powerful and unhinged, as adrenaline pumped through her veins once more.

The metallic ring of Aedhin's withdrawn dagger did not go unnoticed below, as more shouts and wheezy, bubbling shrieks came from the pit, closer than before. Far off, a few torches lit to life, but they more resembled a candle at the bottom of a well, and besides a few shapes, neither could see what they would soon face.

"I don't plan on jumping into that this time, hah, shit," Aedhin muttered, but his voice cracked, betraying his fear.

Cassandra gave his chest plate a quick rap with her knuckles, voice calloused and strained as she whispered under her breath.

" _Through blinding mist, I climb a sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base endlessly far beneath my feet. The Maker is the rock to which I cling_." She held out the knife and lowered her stance only a little, glaring into the darkness, waiting to see the glitter of darkspawn eyes as they reached the top of the cliff face. Aedhin soon dropped into similar stance, and without pause, she continued the chant, steady, and slow, and her focus returned, the fear melted from her until all she felt was fire.

" _I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped. Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide._ "

 

* * *

 

She was fast, faster than he ever thought. When the first claws reached and tried to find purchase in his toes, she already knew, and booted the monster away from them. It plummeted down below with a scream and Aedhin winced at the sound its body made as it broke against rock and creature down below.

How she could see in absolute darkness was beyond him but that first, tiny victory, gave him hope enough they might figure their way out of this too.

He'd never felt her _fixate_ like this before. Though not at all surprised she had the Chant memorized verbatim, it was her focus, the sound of her voice not all present beside him as she recited her way through the Canticle of Trials like a personal challenge to the small horde below.

" _I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here._ "

What had hours ago been a lonely, deep silence, was now a riot of shrill war cries and scrambling up toward him and Cassandra, whose tired, worn voice held warmth and promise as she spoke.

A hand closed on his ankle, tried to tug itself upward. Aedhin drove his dagger down straight until it clinked against the stone through a narrow wrist. The monster fell back and then the fingers around him laxed, peeled back to the ground. Both of them clung with one hand on the ladder rungs and the other armed with a blade. Aedhin swiped and stabbed blindly down in front of him; Cassandra's strikes seemed more premeditated, calculated. She did not miss.

How long could they hold this up?

By the sound, not long, but at least with so small a place to stand, they could maybe hold their ground for a couple more hours, at least--

"Argh-!" Her knife was stuck in the creature in front of them. She tugged once, twice, before she gave up and wrenched her hand away. Gripping her weight to the ladder, Cassandra kicked the darkspawn off the ledge.

"Cover your face!" she hissed, he did as she said, and the sound of steel on steel rang across the empty space as she drew out her longsword from its scabbard on her back.

And then far above them, the scrape and rumble of stone against stone.

Green and blue light lit the cavern all at once, shining, blinding, Aedhin couldn't help screwing his eyes shut and flattened his back against the wall. In the light he heard shouting, but he couldn't make out the words, and as the large shelf of stone lifted away a volley of arrows came through in an arc, whistling and whipping as they passed him and Cassandra into the abyss below.

His eyes burned from the sudden flood of magic and torchlight, and as he looked up with a watery stare he recognized first the large, hulking figure of the Iron Bull, and the tiny shadow of a dwarf. The ladder rungs came to a stop about halfway up, leaving the length of two men between them and the top.

"That's a large horde down there! Keep firing those arrows!" The warden's booming voice echoed across the space.

A thick, braided rope tumbled down between them. Aedhin stabbed another darkspawn, and then cast the blackened dagger down into the dark.

Cassandra, ever diligent, hacked and slashed at arms and fingers and teeth as the darkspawn climbed over each other on the ledge. If the light hurt, she didn't show it. Aedhin looped the rope around her twice and knotted it with fumbling, clumsy fingers, and every second felt like a hundred, too long, not fast enough--

He wound the extra length around his left arm and, bracing himself in a tight hold against her, gave the rope a hard tug back.

His stomach dropped as they were both hauled off their feet and up the cliff face. They both tucked their faces into each other's shoulders, and he felt the bones in his wrist pop out of place as the rope snagged tight around the joint. As he yelled out in pain, the mark flared to life, crackling and snapping with white-hot magic pulses. He didn't even notice how quickly the ledge above approached, or the ladder rung pieces jutting out of the stone.

The metal sliced through jacket and mail like paper, and Aedhin felt cold and then raw, furious burning through the healing scars on his back as he twisted into Cassandra's side.

The impact at the top knocked the wind out of him.

Aedhin crumpled on the stone floor, the noise of the fight a haze around them, blinded by firelight. Cassandra shouted something at him and tried to haul him back. He looked past his feet toward the dark, where yellowed eyes and charcoal skin crawled up after them, and a roar from Blackwall rang around him as hands grappled him and pulled him away. The green and blue light of the fade flashed brilliantly in the cavern before there was a crack like thunder and the rock crest crashed down upon the the mountain shaft, sealing the darkspawn below.

Aedhin let his head drop back on the ground, reached out to give Cassandra a light pinch on the arm. She gave a breathy, sour laugh and a smack on his leg.

"Never again," he breathed, and then the exhaustion pulled him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed with an excursion further into the mountain and dodging about the Deep Roads for this part, but decided it would derail too far from the other characters and the main current of the story.
> 
> Alternative tags for the story include, "Aedhin does stupid things that look cool and gets hurt" and "Cassandra struggles with words" 
> 
> Thank you for the kind words and the kudos! It's hard for me not to post anything in one go, especially the other parts of the series, because they would spoil things down the line. But I'm flattered anyone is reading this!


	13. Chapter 13

Hot, cold, hot, cold.

His bouts of waking were exchanges of throbbing heat in his head and ice-cold in his fingers and toes. Once or twice, he mustered a moan of pain, but he felt voiceless and buried, and though a panicked voice in his mind begged him to sit up, to protect himself, Luin fell back into the dark grey haze of fever.

When he awoke he was under the morning sun in the desert.

Aerin and Lirinnea argued quietly across the fire.

Aerin, looking haggard, dark purple-black under her eyes and scabs on her lips from the sun blisters, lectured Lirinnea on her carelessness. Luin shook his head once, twice, but it felt as if there were wool in his ears. He touched them, to check, but nothing. They were fine.

He shook his head once more and inhaled slowly.

"What happened?" he asked as his senses returned to him.

Both turned to him.

"I told you not to push yourself," Aerin spat, "And when I told you to watch not to freeze to death back then, _Fenedhis_! I didn't..." Then her face softened, and she stood. "You deal with it, Lirinnea. I'll look around." She picked up her bow and walked away, lingered in a crouched position on the edge of the cliff crevice they picked for their camp.

Luindir's gaze moved to Lirinnea. "I'm confused, Lirin," he sighed. "Tell me."

Carefully, Lirinnea felt her way on the ground around the fire to his side. His hands felt weak as he reached for her, guided her to him and wrapped his arms around her. Her greyed eyes stared down at her knees. He put his forehead on her shoulder, and kissed the spot of bare flesh where her collar met her neck.

"I was scared when you collapsed," Lirin said, "And I thought, what if this was my fault? So I told Aerin. I told her everything. I thought it would help, vhenan."

"Told her what?" he asked, frowning. "We're all in this together. We havebeen since we made it out."

"I told her...our secret," Lirinnea said, "I told her why you weren't sleeping. I told her what I realized when we wanted to go east, what we did."

"What on earth are you talking about?" He felt a vague pull in his stomach, like he'd had this conversation before.

Lirin went quiet. Luindir gave her a gentle shake. "I don't know what you're talking about. What secret? What did you tell Aerin?" With each question his voice sounded further and further away, the words slurring and sliding together.

"Did you forget? How could you forget? Luin? Luin!"

 _Forget what?_ he tried to ask, but his arms fell from her and the cold and the dark took him again.

The next time he opened his eyes, he could see stars through a charred roof, and heard the gentle hum of crickets in the night. Luin tried to speak but the sound came out in a dry, cracking wheeze. Hands bathed in blue light were above him in an instant, and he felt the relief of pain and pressure in his chest almost instantly. The hands reached behind him and helped prop him up.

A wooden cup of water was pressed to his mouth and Luin gulped it back with a sputter.

"Easy now, friend, I didn't put all this work in for you to choke to death," chided the voice, a man, who gently pulled the cup away.

Luin managed a grunt, pinched his eyes shut to try and remember where he was.

"Are you _actually_ awake this time or is this another nightmare fit?"

 _Is this a nightmare?_ Luin tilted his head to the left as he tried to figure it out. Nightmares had demons, blood splattered across the walls, the cries of a child echoing in the dark shadows of the trees. This looked like a cabin. It smelled like the Hinterlands--

"Dorian?" he ventured, in a deep, gravelly voice.

"Ah, you remember me after all. Well, of course you do, who could forget a face like this?" He propped up a bundle of blankets behind Luin and smiled down at him. "I'm not really suited to this kind of thing, you know. You might be the first person I've ever had to nurse back from the brink of death. Lucky you, am I right? Good thing I was always such a determined student!"

Luin groaned, reached his hands up slowly to press against his throbbing temples. He realized then he was unclothed from the waist up, wrapped in thick bandages across his chest and shoulders. "Did someone stop by?" he asked.

Dorian settled into the stool next to the cot. "Depends on your definition. I might have had to cremate a Venatori assassin or two. They showed up a little early for tea. Terribly rude."

"No." Luin closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "A woman, dark hair and eyes. No vallaslin."

"No lady callers, I'm afraid." Dorian crossed his legs and his arms. "You called out in Elvhen a number of times through your fever, but damned if I recognize a name from a curse. Anytime I tried to snap you out of it you kept shouting at me to 'stop speaking in Tevene!" Dorian waved his hands for emphasis, "because you couldn't understand." The mage laughed to himself. "After that, I really did start talking to you in Tevene but that seemed to upset you more so I just let you be. You ripped open your wounds four times. It was very stressful. You owe me a day in an Orlesian spa."

"Where's Kiki?"

"What? The herald's sister? You're joking right?"

Luin looked over with as dark a stare as he could muster.

"You really don't remember?" Dorian tugged at the end of his moustache. "You sent her off with her brother before we left Redcliffe. Exactly how much of your mind did that demon's poison eat up, anyway? It's been a week since we escaped the castle. I'm offended that you can't recognize how blessed you were to spend such intimate time with me." Dorian gestured around them with the most sarcastic smirk Luindir had ever seen. "Sexy cabin in the woods, not quite the chateau I'm used to but a romantic weekend getaway nonetheless."

Slowly, bits and pieces returned to him, as he reflected. The broken soldiers on the shoreline. Red lyrium in the dungeon. The breach, black and bruised across the sky. The demon in the throne room. "Then we should get going," Luin sighed and moved to stand. Both his knees bent awry beneath him.

Dorian caught him around the waist. "Oh no you don't. I already carried you all the way here! You weren't even awake to watch my impressive act of heroism! Let's sleep and eat for a bit before we move on." With an unexpected gentleness, he helped Luin back on the cot and pressed the back of his hand to the elf's forehead.

"Your temperature seems improved at least," Dorian muttered, and reached with his other hand for the scratchy wool blanket Luin threw off when he tried to stand. "Should I regale you with a tale of the last dreadfully uneventful seven days? In addition to being handsome and unfairly brilliant, I'm a fabulous storyteller."

"Please spare me," Luin said, with a half-pained laugh, and settled back against the bundle of blankets behind him.

"Awful. Zero out of ten. Worst dependent ever." Dorian shook his head and sat back on the stool. "In all seriousness, I thought you might actually die from that wound." He reached across and softly tapped Luin's bandaged chest. "I tried my best to stop the scarring. Nasty thing, that acid. You're downright blessed I'm not some brute with a sword and no education."

He could feel the ache and pulse beneath the bandages, and worse than that, the itching, but for all the cotton in his mind, he _did_ feel better. Luin stared at Dorian in silence for a long while, until the Tevinter quirked an eyebrow, and Luin attempted to clear his throat.

"Thank you. I owe you my--"

"Don't you even _dare_ start on that," Dorian warned, "You kept the both of us from being eaten alive under the light of that rift. We'll call it even and start fresh in the morning." From his belt, Dorian pulled a small flask and offered it out. Luin took it, and though he was never fond of human spirits, the dark brandy was a welcome and relieving taste on his lips. After giving the silver flask back, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall.

"And, all things considered, you're not so hard on the eyes, so my trauma coming out of this is minimal at best," Dorian quipped with a wink. "Get more sleep. The wards should hold until sunrise. Then we go back to the end of the world."

"Sounds like an adventure," Luin said, and gave a weak, grateful smile to his companion. "We're a little in over our heads."

"Ah, only if you believe it." Dorian crossed his arms behind his head and put his feet up on the table. "I have a few theories of what's to happen next. And, because I'm as clever as I am pretty, I have solutions, too." Luin nodded, and thought to ask more, but after a few moments of silence he slipped back into a heavy sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he looked into the dirty old mirror on the desk in the corner, Dorian was reasonably surprised not to find any grey hairs upon his head. He felt as if he should have them. Getting away from Redcliffe had been trial enough, never mind with the unconscious body of his companion over his shoulders. Dorian had never done a day of labour in his life, and though he considered himself a specimen of rather admirable physique, he did wonder more than once if he would die carrying Luin to safety. His back and shoulders still ached.

The cabin he found was a gift from Andraste herself. It looked as if the little home had been left in a rush, with a fireball hole in the roof and most of the occupants' belongings left behind. There was even some dried food packed away in one of the cupboards and a little book of stories on the table. After setting a lightning trap in front of the threshold, Dorian went to work trying to bring Luindir back from the edge.

His healing spells had no effect on the fever, and eventually Dorian realized Luin's ferocious thrashing kept reopening the scabs and tearing apart the blisters.

Stripping the elf was an ordeal in itself. While beautiful to look at, the number of misleading ties and crossed clips in the man's armour and shirts made Dorian second guess his taste in fancy clothing. He never wanted to unlace that many layers again, even in the most ideal of circumstances. _Especially_ in the most ideal of circumstances.

Revealing Luin's chest scared him in a way he didn't expect.

The acid left peeling bumps and glistening blisters, gleaming red and yellow in the firelight, but the wounds themselves were purple and green with infection. The first two days he spent cleaning the broad slashes, back and forth between heated water and small doses of healing magic. Eventually, the wounds calmed to a dark, angry red, and the skin knitted under Dorian's mana. The daily maintenance of the wound itself became easier after that.

But Luindir weighed almost nothing without his armour and leathers. As the fever worsened and he began fighting about in his sleep, Dorian worried the elf might waste away, if he didn't bleed out first. Dorian slept only for small, hour-long spurts. Long enough to to draw lyrium out from the Fade, to heat and chill the basin of water at Luin's bedside and manage the fever as best as he could.

Then the Venatori assassins found them.

In a little Tevinter dictionary, after the word 'immolate', one could surely find a sketch of one Dorian Pavus and a synonym definition for 'overkill'. He left barely enough of the bones to qualify as human. Thus began a long and hate-filled four hours of digging, another task Dorian hoped to never, ever, _ever_ do again his life. He'd never forget the blisters on his hands. What would his mother say, to see him working away like some peasant farmer in a garden? Despicable. He never missed Minrathous more. 

On the fourth night, Luin haunted the cabin between waking and sleep, muttering and cursing and begging for help through his dreams.

The altus had seen enough things in the journey southward to fuel nightmares, but nothing quite unsettled him like seeing Luindir unravel before him under fever and fear, lashing out with small bursts of frost and wailing like a child for help. Eventually, Dorian realized if he kept silent and offered the glow and the warmth of healing magic instead, Luin would settle to small mutters and prayers. More than once, he snapped at Dorian for calling out to him.

"Ask Aerin if you don't know," he said one night, eyes glowing and vicious. "You should know better. You can't take her. I won't let you."

He wondered who Aerin was, why she spoke Tevene, how she knew the elf, and who he thought he had to protect. Since the poison first set upon Luindir he'd muttered her name throughout, even spoke to her like she was in the room, but half of what he said was in Elvhen and the rest...well, Dorian knew the words _individually_ , but strung together in sickness? Andraste only knew. 

At sunset each night, Dorian tipped his head downward and asked Andraste to at least let Luin sleep the night. If his situation didn't improve after seven days, Dorian decided to leave him there and call out the healer from the Crossroads to attend him. The Breach could not wait. Dorian hoped against his own promise to be proven wrong. He felt at least a little responsible - what good had he brought in that final fight, besides the escape? Watching Luin sweat and writhe beneath the sheets, fragile, clinging only by threads to his breath and his life, Dorian felt like he'd wandered that damaged future with a different man. The contrast made their mortality ever clear.

In the few, scant hours that he slept, he dreamt of Luin's cold and uncaring gaze as he drove the bladed bow through the dead spellcaster's neck. Tried to reassure him that they didn't need to be so brutal to survive. Tried not to look, to feel so uneasy when Luin summoned that incredible winter magic, fired his arrows like the very heartbeat of destruction itself. But the fear always showed, on his face, in the glimmer of the Fade within the rift. The dream ended with his last words to Alexius, each time.

_"A thousand Tevinter sons still wouldn't be enough recompense."_

He didn't know what that meant, but thinking about it tightened an ever-growing tangle of stress in deep inside of him. He could guess, surely, and if anyone was aware of the faults of his home, it was him. He was certainly a son of Tevinter, after all. Dorian paced the length of the little cabin during the day, burning with curiosity, but also guilt, and eventually swore to himself that he'd see Tevinter change enough that no one else could be haunted by nightmares like _this_. How and when, Andraste knew, but no one deserved whatever his companion relieved each night.

Finally, on the sixth night, Luin opened his eyes for real.

Dorian could have kissed him, he was so relieved. He didn't, and he _wouldn't_ , but he could have! Even better, after the initial confusion, Luin seemed back to his cool, collected self. Not even the murdering machine from deep inside Redcliffe's castle!

Dorian laughed with him, and goaded him into chatting a little, and with the relief came the abatement of the guilt, at least some of it, and in the few hours until dawn Dorian slept absent of both dream and nightmare.

Now, as he dressed, he looked into the mirror expected to see a much more haggard man.

"Ah, Dorian..."

He came back to the moment and glanced back at the elf. "Hm?"

Luin leaned against a chair with pressed lips, eyes avoidant. Red bloomed across his face and neck, right to the tips of his ears. At first, Dorian worried the fever was back, until Luin spoke.

"I'm certain I cannot get anymore put on without assistance," he finally said, almost stuttered. "I apologize for being an inconvenience, but if you could...well..."

If they weren't being hunted by magisters and Venatori slaves, Dorian might have found the moment endearing. The savage warrior could blush? How charming. Belatedly, he found himself wondering if they'd make it out of the Hinterlands alive if Luin couldn't even get in and out of his armour.

"You really ought to invest in something less corset-inspired," he chided coolly as he sauntered over to Luin and picked up the next shirt. "Coming from one man of delicate excess to another, this is hardly the stuff of adventuring."

"I'm not arguing that now," said Luin, "I've been hurt before, but never this grieviously." He grimaced as he stepped into the fitted sleeves.

"You could at least _pretend_ to look forward to my touch," Dorian teased as he wound the laces of Luin's coat around his waist. "Many a lord and lady have dueled for less." He didn't look up as Luin snorted, and Dorian supposed that was as close to a laugh as he was bound to get from the elf in his recovery.

"Lucky for you all that bandaging and nursing has me intimately familiar with both your wounds and your curves," he finished as he buckled the last of the armour to Luindir's shoulder. "Not too tight, I hope?"

Tiredly, Luin sunk into a chair and finally met eyes with him. "Feels like it never came off," he said, after a long, hard, unreadable stare. "How long until we get to the Crossroads from here?"

Dorian laughed. "In your condition? Two days. Maybe three. We might even get lucky and meet some scouts along the King's Road, instead of bandits. Wouldn't that be pleasant? In my dreams I also picture a horse and cart. It would be ever so lovely to be able to add clairvoyance to my long list of skills."

"I summon hope for nothing now," Luin replied cryptically, and stood, carefully picking up the longbow from the floor, and leaning his weight into it like a staff. Dorian shrugged; he wasn't wrong, after all. Pessimism had its benefits. He froze the warmth in the hearth with a swipe of his hand as they left. Overhead, the sky was grey, and the breeze blew chilly from the north. Rain, or snow? Dorian hoped for neither.

In the first hours of the morning's light, they did not speak, except for Dorian to check in on his direction with Luin, as he walked in the lead. After what felt like a few hours, Luin's steps lagged behind and it took twenty minutes of banter to convince him to sit and rest.

Dorian picked at the labour-callouses on his hands as they sat in the cover of the trees. "You know, I was thinking about it while you were out cold," he began, "I cannot for the life of me discern the enchantment on that bow. Where in Thedas did you get such a thing?" He edged back an inch when Luin broke out in a large, excited smile.

"I built it," he declared proudly, puffing out his chest. "When I was fifteen and I was finally caught using magic, I was forced to use staves instead of a bow. This was a frost staff, once, but it was broken in a fight against a possessed wildcat."

Dorian raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to ask another question, but Luin spoke over him, his words stumbling together. Dorian barely kept up.

"And then, we found an old ruin and a spirit from the Fade called to me. I followed her and she brought me to a set of swords. They were beautiful, but the handles were eroded from acid. It was a thoughtful gift, so I took them anyway." Luin paused, scrunched his expression up just a little, as if trying to control the gleeful grin spreading across his features. "And when we stopped in a village, I had the most incredible idea! What if I could channel magic into arrows, like the elves of Arlathan?"

With some difficulty, he held the bow out to Dorian. Dorian hesitated before he took it. Would it sense his Tevinter blood and try to kill him? It turned Luindir from an exhausted injured man into a manic child telling a tale without all the pieces. Dorian liked his own madness exactly as it was.

The boyish grin across Luin's face proved too much to turn down so Dorian took the weapon and inspected its construction as Luin continued the story. The engravings on the blade were old, a style of metalwork Dorian only saw in museums and temples.

"No one believed, of course, except the Keeper. But I knew! This was the first great design June blessed upon my hands. I stayed in that village for a long time, working on it, helping the blacksmith. I rebuilt the staff into a bow, and smithed the blades into the ends. At first, the magic was unstable and I could never get the aim right. I ruined hundreds of arrows trying to perfect it. To this day, I've never seen the First so frustrated with me. And we were so lucky, the smith's daughter was an apostate. He never shared my secret."

"You're scaring me a little, you know that?" Dorian said softly, but Luin's smile was contagious, and he caught himself mirroring it as he handed back the bow.

"She said something similar!" He held up the bow by the haft. "And then I realized, the enchantment in the wood and in the steel were overwhelming each other, and the arrows. The haft was splitting them instead of unifying them. So I carved a new haft, with a deflection ward, like the ones we use to keep the children inside the aravels at night, but reversed, to balance the energy with what I was channeling and..." He trailed off, and straightened his back, and all of a sudden grew withdrawn and embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. This is probably boring you, given where you're from. No one's asked me since I left the clan, I didn't mean to get so excited." Luin cleared his throat and looked away, returned to his quiet demeanour.

Dorian tried several times to come up with something witty and clever to retort, but all he could think of was how much suddenly _younger_ the man seemed as he lit up, despite an otherwise very _old_ personality. "You're altogether more frightening and intriguing when you start talking all arts and crafts than when you're facing demons," he finally managed, "I haven't decided how I fully feel. Boring is not the word that comes to mind. But...brilliant, however, does."

It dawned on him then, all the little ties and buttons and clasps.

This man was an artist. How funny.

"I'll at least say your unbridled passion for your project is a welcome change from your gloomy glare of distrust," he added lightly as they both got to their feet.

Luin pursed his lips.

Dorian put up his hand. "I'm not trying to start an argument. I'm sure it's well deserved. I know better than anyone where I've come from." He waved off whatever comment Luin tried to return and headed back out to the path. Once out on the road, he slowed his pace, waited for Luin to catch up to him, but did not start conversation again.

It wasn't until they stopped for the night in an old apostate supply cache that Luin spoke.

"Did we end up getting that amulet?" he asked, breathless, and wincing he crossed his arm over his chest and put his back against the cave wall.

"The amulet...? Oh. Alexius' amulet. Yes. I've already taken care of it."

Luin breathed hard and steady, several long inhales and exhales, before he replied, "How so?"

Dorin turned away, looked out of the mouth of the cave. He'd wanted to keep it, as a reminder, but the recurring nightmares of the moment of Alexius' death brought on new waves of 'what if's and 'what about next time'.

"I shattered it and melted the pieces before I buried it. No one can reassemble it or learn its enchantment now." He even thought about keeping the chain, but he thought about the red lyrium, the broken sky, and the haunting judgement from the Inquisition woman they rescued in the tower. In that moment, he felt as if the chain seared through him, and he shattered that for good measure as well.

In that moment the burden of saving Tevinter seemed far too great to carry. How did he think he could have possibly tackled this without more support?

Luin grumbled across from him and struggled with the clasps holding his coat and armour across his chest. Once he finally wrenched it open and pulled the clip at his collar, he slipped his fingers in against the bandages. There was a soft glow under his palm, and then Luin's shoulders dropped.

"Would you be troubled by taking the first watch?" he asked. "I should have called out to rest...a little sooner."

Dorian threaded his hands behind his head, and flashed his court smile. "I had a feeling. Rest as you need."

It wasn't long until the elf's breathing calmed and he slumped slightly to the side, expression peaceful. Dorian's smile fell afterward and he sighed. If he stared at the sky, and didn't think about the trees, the chilly air, the threat of snow or the elf across the cave, he could almost picture the stars like he used to watch them from the tallest balcony of his family's home in Qarinus. Almost.

He expected to feel empowered by the reminiscence. Instead he felt impossibly small, and miserably he shook his head and resigned his gaze to the dark beyond them.

Lest he forget, he was far from home, and had so very far left yet to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I regret not giving these two their own story but...there are other parts to this series. They'll get their turn!
> 
> Writing Dorian's dialogue was a lot harder than I expected.
> 
> I finished my storyboarding for this over the weekend. I predict the whole thing will stay contained at 55 chapters. It's good to be ambitious, I suppose. Thanks again to everyone sticking around! Writing this/playing in tandem with it has been a great after work de-stresser.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Like hell! You need my support here!" She wrenched away from him. "I'm staying. I'm helping."

As the days passed, as she was ignored by the spymaster, the ambassador, and the commander, Kiaran set herself to glowering from the cover of her brother's thinking spot on the bridge. Particularly, she glowered down at one recognizable blond head and auburn mantle down at the camp. She hoped from here, he felt her watching him, scowling.

She _could_ be assisting with what she was good at. He closed the door on that and turned the lock. Nothing new. She'd figure out how to circumvent it, eventually. Once Aedhin came back, he'd certainly see the value in what she wanted to share.

The more they all left her to her own, the angrier she felt, a hot little fire in her chest. As a child she imagined herself much like a dragon, beautiful and frightening and altogether meant for bigger things than hiding her talents and being afraid of the world.

 _If you're a dragon,_ Donovon said, _So am I, but a dragon from the Fade._

 _Maybe we're both from the Fade_ , she suggested once, punctuated by a careless giggle. That was a dark memory. There was only one other time Father had been angry enough to hit, before he knew, and it was with Aedhin. Her older brother spent a week inside the house with the curtains drawn while the bruises healed. No one was allowed to see him, but in the stillness of night, the twins brought him cakes from their afternoon tea.

_Half our children speak like Orlesians, not Marchers! It's different here, Jeanette! Their whole future could be destroyed by playing The Game in these walls!_

_I speak like my own person,_ she thought to herself, _And so did Donovon. We were always ourselves. You just couldn't see it._

Already, she had a handful of boys among the mages tied into her idea. _I'm working on it_ , she promised, _But wouldn't it be good to be able to defend from rogue templars? Take the wind out of them? And show the templars we can be helpful, more than restoration spells and wards?_

Once Aedhin was back, she'd convince him, too.

In his absence, she couldn't escape the memories. The Trevelyan Memories, she would say to herself, since she wasn't Trevelyan on paper any longer. Sometimes it was knife-fighting with her twin, when their mother was pulled away to entertain guests. More frequently, it was those times Aedhin caught them in the night and forced them back to bed, and recited stories he heard from the guards or his friends to put them back to sleep.

And somehow here she was, shivering in his seat as the snow fell gently over Haven, hoping to watch Cullen or Leliana trip under the force of her stare.

What would Luindir advise? The worry for him never abated.

He would tell her to open her mind, no doubt. At the thought of his gentle encouragement her face grew warm and she pressed her forehead into her knees.

If she missed Aedhin a little, she missed Luin more, and no one had heard from him or the Tevinter mage he left with. What she'd give for his soft muttering and his patient address to her questions, his comfortable and unassuming personality, his confidence and clarity and impressively absent sense of self-importance.

At the thought of her companion Kiaran side-eyed the Breach.

"If you take him, Andraste help you, my brother will seem inconsequential," she threatened out loud.

"Talk to yourself an awful lot doncha?"

Kiaran yelped as Sera dropped from above, landing with a _poof!_ in the fresh powder and giggling at the cloud that lifted around her.

"Maker! What if I fell off the ledge?!" Kiaran shouted, clutching above her chest. "Or what if I set you on fire! You...you can't just sneak up on a mage!"

"That don't affect me none now," Sera said, looking down her nose to the frozen lake below. "Not my problem you spook so quick." She giggled again, as if she'd told an exceptionally good joke, and climbed up on the ledge next to Kiaran. She kicked her legs back and forth against the stone.

"Word on the street...the road...the way...the one path," Sera corrected, "Word is you're lighting little rebel fires under everyone's noses, yeah?"

"There's really only one nose in particular I hope," Kiaran muttered as she looked away, "Do you suppose everyone gets like that in their thirties?"

Sera snickered. "Not little folk," she promised. "Think they'd let Lady Little Sister out for a little field trip?"

"Not on your life," Kiaran said, "Why? You need a little smoke and mirrors for one of your friends?" She'd heard - in drunken detail at least - about Sera and her _friends_. Varric seemed rather invested, as he followed the elf around constantly with a quill in hand. Kiaran wondered why she never met Jennies in Kirkwall, but she supposed in her corners of Darktown, you only ever worried about guards and templars. The little people weren't the top of mind.

"Nah," the elf replied, swaying side to side. "Was thinking lightning. Fire. Boom. Something bigger. Got some small people that know things, but they're a little stuck. Gotta get 'em unstuck, you know? Get 'em through the nasties in the east pass. And I'm not talking bears. Not just, anyway, last I saw."

Kiaran glanced down ahead of them, toward the mountain path that lead to the highway through Ferelden.

"How far out?"

"With your stubby legs? Few hours. There and back. Mmm...maybe longer. Can't get through without sparks and glitter, though, but this mess is a bunch of 'fraid little healers." A malicious grin spread across Sera's face. "But you're not afraid of nothin, are you?"

Was she afraid? _Of everything, in a way_ , she wanted to say. _Just like everyone is afraid of me._ Would that stop her this time?

"Not enough to tell you no. Who else is coming?" Kiaran crossed her arms and leaned back against the stone.

"Well _me_ , duh, Grumps," Sera sneered, "And maybe Varric. Depends how I pitch it."

Kiaran imagined there'd be quite a scene when they returned, if she snuck away. They hadn't told her much of her brother's condition except that he was alive, so she guessed it was days yet before he returned. What could they do to her before he was here? There was no question of the respect and admiration Aedhin held among the Inquisition encampment.

"If you can get my things out of the cabin without anyone noticing, I'll come with you." Kiaran promised. "I can already picture the outrage on the Commander's face if I get caught on my own." The barest hint of a smirk tugged at her mouth, but she kept her face as plain as she could.

"Knew you were different," Sera said, jumping back off the ledge. "Let's get your fancy shoes a little dirty."

With a resounding cackle, Sera took off into the treeline again and disappeared.

"I'll help someone else, then," Kiaran muttered, giving a pointed look to the training soldiers below. "With or without your _perfect planning_."

 

* * *

 

Under the protection of a heavy cloak lined in fur, Kiaran marched behind Sera and Varric. The latter came under the pretense of, " _I want to see exactly what happens when Curly sees you walk back into camp with new faces."_

The snowfall stopped in the early afternoon, leaving a clouded, but unmoving sky. Getting around the camp had taken Kiaran a considerable amount of work, and a level of stealth she hadn't had to use in over a year. As she crossed the frozen river and slid in among the trees, she felt a prickle down the back of her neck. She last came this way fleeing the Conclave after her Fade-friend called out to her in her sleep.

Instead of templars and Chantry soldiers, the area was bare now, except for trees and some of the rams and druffalo who hadn't continued southeast to the Hinterlands. Somehow, she eventually made her way around, and slid down the snowbanks on the other side of the gate to meet Varric and Sera.

_"How'd you do that without getting hurt, kid?"_

_"I mean...snowbank's easier to slide down than fences and sewer grates?" she offered, raising both hands innocently._

_"You know," the dwarf smiled at her as he shook his head, "I know someone you'd get along very well with. Maybe one day I'll introduce you."_

Not her first choice party for trekking into the forested wilderness of the Frostbacks, but Sera and Varric both seemed confident in where they were going, and how to get back. About an hour out on the high road, Sera turned off on a smaller, winding path with just the faintest of footprints left in it.

"Still don't know what those elfy types love about this sort of thing," Sera complained as she kicked ahead through the snow, voice muffled in the thick wool scarf wrapped around her face, "What the 'ell's wrong with pavement and warm corners?"

Kiaran shrugged, watched her breath come out in a puff. "I'm still impressed this much snow actually exists in one place."

Varric laughed. "Where you've been, this must seem like hell."

"Not exactly..." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Before the Conclave, I only knew Kirkwall and Ostwick. High walls...bodies hidden in alleys...this is...much cleaner. Even if I can't feel my fingers."

The dwarf laughed again. "That's one way to look at it, I guess."

"Hmmm!" Sera bent over a Chantry waystone marker on the path. "Very interesting, that!" Without explaining why, she skipped off ahead of Varric and Kiaran down the path. "This way, slowpokes!"

She and the dwarf exchanged a look, Varric shrugged, and gestured for Kiaran to step ahead. The path became more obscured as they walked, and Kiaran pulled forward the staff on her back to help wade through the thick, heavy buildup of powder. An hour in, Sera whistling happily, the footprints they followed disappeared.

"You sure you know where we're headed, Buttercup?" Varric probed, huffing as he hauled one leg in front of the other. "There's not a whole lot here - living or otherwise..."

"The cache is in the mine," she replied in a sing-song voice, "No one would camp outside in _this_! Are you daft?" They came to the edge of a cliff and she held her hands out to the valley below. "See?"

"Aw, shit," breathed Varric, and Kiaran looked down at the valley with a frown.

Most of the ladders were intact but there'd been a hard landslide over the entrance at the base. Only a few of the platforms held through it, but earth and stone both piled around the wooden pillars and blocked off access to the mine. She knew a little of force magic, that was how they hid within the city's infrastructure after all, but...

"Sera, I'm both flattered and nervous that you think this is something I can take on my own, but..."

"Are your people even going to be alive?" Varric rubbed at his chin. "That's a long way down."

A familiar, high pitched ringing sounded quietly in Kiaran's ears. She began down the first ladder with careful steps. What happened to her brother on the coast was still fresh in her mind, earthquakes and collapsed stone, a warning tale if any. But she could hear it --magic, buzzing in the air.

"We can at least try," she sighed. "Someone's cast a...something, down there. I can...I can hear it."

Sera looked down at her like she was crazy. Varric narrowed his eyes.

"It's a...mage thing," Kiaran tried explaining, as she looked up the ladder at them, "Conjurations have a...sound? Not really a sound but, a vibration? ...ah, nevermind. Just trust me."

The sky around them darkened considerably by the time they made it to the mine entrance. Kiaran pursed her lips, paced back and forth in front of the rocks and snow, as she sized up the broken earth in front of them. Maybe it was the Breach glowing above them, or maybe these were old lyrium mines, but the longer she stared, the louder the twinkling ring of magic echoed in her ears.

"You alright, Matchsticks?"

Kiaran frowned at the nickname. "Yeah, I just...don't want to bring the rest of the valley down on us."

"Just, do the thing!" Sera suggested helpfully, "You know! Boom, swoosh, crash!"

 _Shouldn't have left Haven_ , she quipped to herself, _Now you're lost in the mountains with Sera._

"Is that what it sounds like?" Kiaran laughed, a pressured, nervous laugh. "Just...stand back. The holes were...smaller...in Kirkwall."

When she glanced back, Varric stepped away almost ten paces.

Shaking her head, Kiaran closed her eyes and pictured the broken stone in front of her. She extended both hand and staff and felt the thrum of magic in her fingertips. Just a few rocks, right? Slowly she opened her eyes until the light of her spell enclosed all of the ruin in front of her. Kiaran moved two steps back and raised both arms. The whole of broken rock lifted with her motion, snow falling from them in a light, dusty cloud. She felt the sweat freeze on her brow as she lifted the rocks higher and shifted them a little to the right. Her upper arms shook with exertion, and her breaths slowed to a ragged, shallow sound. Kiaran made just the slightest of grunts, spread the fingers on both hands wide, and let the magic flow free as she forced the rocks further to the side.

They fell over each other in a loud crash that echoed across the valley, and some of the snow shifted above the entrance.

She winced, and then peeked out just one eye at a time as quiet settled over the area once again.

Kiaran missed a few, but the entrance was almost completely cleared.

"See, like that! Swoosh and crash!" Sera cheered, smacking her hard in the shoulder. Kiaran flinched and rubbed the sore spot. Varric passed her shaking his head.

"Fake it 'til you make it, kid."

That pretty much summed it up, didn't it? "That's... _accurate_."

"If you ever go back to Kirkwall, I'm going to introduce you to a really great couple of people," he promised.

She only nodded as she followed them into the dark. A few old dwarven lightboxes lit the way in, but the tunnels were mostly a mess of broken torches and abandoned equipment. Kiaran touched the walls, and while the hum of magic still thrummed around them, nothing seemed to come from the stone itself. The sound was familiar, but she couldn't place it, and Kiaran let out a frustrated huff.

"It's not a lyrium mine," she explained, with a half wince, hoping that was helpful.

"At least," Varric agreed. Sera huffed ahead of them.

"Who cares?" She cupped both hands around her mouth. "Hello! You out there, Jenny?"

No response.

"Must be further in, then!" Sera marched onward into the dark.

Kiaran followed much more slowly down the main tunnel, craning her neck left and right to the darker subtunnels that branched away into the mountains. An old mine under the gaze of the Breach? She thought of Aedhin fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads entrance on the Storm Coast.

"Sera, you're...one hundred percent...sure...there's people in here?"

"Sure!" the elf called back, "We meet here all the time! Well...once! After I left Val Royeaux!"

"Andraste light our path," Kiaran sighed. "Sera, we should move more slowly! The magic here is...weird?" At that warning, Varric pulled down the crossbow and loaded a bolt.

"Weird how, kid?" He crept forward slowly, only a small, halting step at a time. Eventually, Sera waited for the other two.

Kiaran bit her lip and walked with her staff held ahead of her. "It...Maker, I can almost remember, but it sounds discordant. I don't know!"

The tunnel took a sharp incline downward, where the red lampstone boxes hung further and further apart. Silence enveloped them except for the occasional scuffed stone, and Kiaran realized as they got further into the mine, the temperature warmed. Their breaths no longer clouded in front of them.

Eventually, they entered into a bigger chamber, where three tents were pitched around a fire with a cauldron over it.

"Went in a little further this time," Sera mumbled to herself, "Idiots. That's where the spiders'll get you." She skipped ahead to peek into the tents, but frowned at each.

"Totally empty? How does a bunch of people up and disappear?"

Down the next tunnel, Kiaran heard a small noise weave into the magic's hum, like a faint sobbing. She narrowed her eyes and lightning crackled at the tip of her staff.

"I think...there's a demon," she breathed, "Down that way. Sera! Are your friends mages?"

"I dunno." The elf notched two arrows on her bow. "Guess we'll find out! Last one there's a smelly nug toe!" And she took off down the tunnel.

Everything exploded in bright light and static after that.

Under a barrier, a Knight-Enchanter protected two warriors and an archer from the onslaught of a wailing sorrow demon breathing ice and frost. While Varric shot a steady stream of bolts, Kiaran summoned a circle of fire beneath the demon. It screamed in pain as the magic burst up from the ground in white and red flames, but as it disappeared into mist, there was a snap and crack further in, and then a flash of hazy green light.

A small wound ripped across the cavern and folded out on itself, snapping apart in sharp spires and bright light.

The rift glittered and shimmered with images of the Fade and more demons rose from the earth.

"We should leave!" Varric called as the enchanter dropped the barrier. Kiaran shoved Sera back toward the camp and swung her staff forward in an arc. Lightning crackled around her, and shot out in skipping streaks when she slammed it down in front of her. The four under the barrier passed her, the archer with his arm around one of the warriors.

The following moments came in flashes: flashes of fire, flashes of lightning, crumbling stone and the skid against frozen earth climbing up through the tunnels. A lampstone burst into flame and sputtered out as a wraith swiped through it and a rage demon roared up from the floor. Blood streaked the ground through the swordsman's wound, which sprayed and sputtered every time he tripped. His greatsword clanked uselessly against his back.

He hung back on a corner and waited for Kiaran and the Knight-Enchanter to catch up.

"I can fi--"

"Just get out of the way," Kiaran hissed as she handed over a lyrium potion to the enchanter, "We didn't risk our necks to leave you--" Another bolt of lightning, bright and hot, fired out at the shade that swept in front of them, "--here to die!"

To punctuate her point, Varric appeared at her side and tugged the other man away.

The enchanter raised a shield of thick, crackling energy.

"That should buy us a few minutes, ser," he said to her, voice thick with an Orlesian accent, "Let us run, ah?"

Outside, a grey sky turned purple with the setting sun. Snow fell gently again, lazy, light little flakes in still air. Picturesque, even with the danger behind them.

"How are you with ice?" Kiaran huffed as she tried to catch her breath.

"I excel, of course," the enchanter replied, coolly, and gave her a polite smile.

"Wall of ice. Now. Inside." She turned away from him and wrapped her energy around the stones they shifted earlier, and with a pained slowness, pushed the debris back over the entrance. The enchanter raised a wall of thick, sparkling ice with a wave of both hands. As Kiaran dropped the rocks back down, he turned to his injured companion and knelt down.

A bright, heavily detailed glyph shone beneath their feet, and the gushing wound in his thigh closed. The man crumpled against his companion in relief.

Kiaran wheezed around the clouds of her breath. "That's not going to stop them for long. We should get back to Haven right away--"

From inside, they heard the rage demon roar.

"Right this way, folks, up the ladder to yer left, then up the next, and the next, and the next!" Sera cheered as she held an arrow ready on the first platform.

Kiaran glanced behind her every few seconds, heart in her ears, fingers numb and clumsy as she tried to climb. Varric reached a hand down to help hoist her up to the top. She took it with a grateful nod, looking behind them as they ran off through the forested path on the route to the highway.

They barely broke from the treeline when a cry came from down the road.

"Commander! Up there, up ahead!"

Kiaran was the first ahead of the group. Commander Cullen, Lysette, and a handful of soldiers bearing torches climbed the mountain highway. Cullen looked as sour as she'd ever seen him and Kiaran skidded across the frozen gravel to a stop in front of him.

"Did you bring templars?" she gasped, steadying herself on her staff. She looked past Lysette, but didn't see the Order's emblem on anyone else. Loathe as she was to admit it, they were her first thought to hold the rift's magic back until Aedhin returned.

"Are you mad? What on earth are you doing sneaking out into the wild, we thought you--"

"There's a _rift_ in the mine!" Kiaran pointed behind her. "We need to get-"

She stumbled forward into him as an explosion shook the ground. As the birds in the trees flew off in a panic, a plume of black smoke and red fire illuminated the night from the frozen canyon.

The unmistakable roar of a pride demon filled the air.

Cullen pulled Kiaran back behind them, and began shouting directions.

"Lloyd, back to camp, I need at least six templar-trained soldiers and any senior mages," he said, "Tell Leliana to prepare for wounded. Maker haste you!" Cullen turned to another scout as Lloyd took off running. "Take Kiaran and the hurt swordsman back to--"

"Like hell! You need my support here!" She wrenched away from him. "I'm staying. I'm _helping_."

His nostrils flared when he looked back down at her, and Kiaran lifted her brows in challenge. When she didn't back away he turned aside and drew his sword.

"Get that wounded man out of here," he ordered, and then looked to Varric and Sera. "We'll need as much cover as you can give us. We'll set a trap on the road to gain the advantage of solid ground." He moved then to Lysette, who already brimmed with silent, muffling energy, and her sword vibrated in her hands.

"Standard array. We'll support where we can until more arrive."

"Yes, Commander." She closed her eyes and became completely still.

Kiaran frowned, and as she went to ask why he wasn't assisting her, lighting blew up over the tree line. The sound brought her back to the conclave and she touched the back of her head to the memory, remembered the exact moment and the sound of her body cracking against the gate. She shuddered it off, held her staff guardedly in front of her as the wails and screams pressed closer through the treeline.

"Maker, you've a knack for trouble," Cullen groaned as he crouched slightly, ready to spring forward, shield and sword ahead of him.

 _You're not wrong_. Adrenaline buzzing in her ears and muscles tensing, all she could do was shrug, and stepped next to him at the front.

"Must be a family thing!" Varric called with just the smallest hint of a dark chuckle, as he loaded back another bolt into Bianca. "You're both _cursed_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted more sidequests around Skyhold and Haven. It just seemed so strange to me there weren't more small disasters happening around it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good to see you, Herald," he breathed, and turned back away. "Your timing is curiously perfect!"
> 
> "I'm trying to convince Cassandra it's part of my charm."

Aedhin felt her judging, piercing gaze long before she spoke, and it took all he had to suppress how very much he wanted to shudder.

"You know, you're very proficient at this with such limited movement," Vivienne remarked, urging her horse up next to Aedhin's. "I daresay I've never seen you sit so straight."

Speaking to her still unnerved him, but Aedhin tried to chuckle the feeling away. "Would you still be so impressed if I told you this is the fourth time I've had to ride in a sling?" His grin spread a little larger to the left side of his face. "My mother used to say a man's charm was all in how he looked in bandages."

The First Enchanter laughed lightly. "Your mother sounds like she was a very kind woman, Herald." She rode on ahead to the front to speak with the templar she traveled down with.

It took Aedhin a few minutes of soft smiling to realize she'd most definitely insulted him. And his mother? He noted to spend more quality time learning with Josephine when they returned to Haven. His Orlesian ancestors would surely curse him penniless for his poor form in The Game if he let a pureborn Marcher talk him in circles like this, every time.

The smoke plumes of hearthfires drifting above Haven came into view in the distance, a soft grey against the dark night sky. Snow fell, but gently, and the wind was still. Not wanting to spend another night in a tent, Aedhin pushed them to continue on to Haven. He wasn't sure his bones could take another night on the ground in the cold.

Coming out of the Dwarven tunnel, he knew he'd dislocated his left arm somehow, but he passed out before he could assess the damage himself.

The last charge in the cave also hadn't come from Solas or Vivienne, as Aedhin thought. His coat sleeve, singed from wrist to elbow, told a vastly different story.

When he awoke, Solas asked him about the mark. How it felt. If his nightmares returned with the same pain as before.

 

_"It was well timed but incredibly powerful," Solas told him, as he explained the blast that sealed the cavern below. "I wondered if it felt changed at all. I had to use wards again to calm it, and for a few hours, your fever returned. We all worried you wouldn't return to us again."_

_"I'm not really trained on this kind of thing," Aedhin reminded him, "But...no? I don't even remember doing it."_

 

The break in his wrist was clean, but the sprain was worse, so under Solas' caution he promised not to fight until the limb was back to its fullest strength, lest the strange mark be upset again. Exhausted, sore, and - shamefully - _shaken,_ by the experience, Aedhin hadn't argued. He held the arm close in a sling for the whole journey back. If he never encountered darkspawn again, Maker, he'd be forever grateful.

He jealously regarded Cassandra's quick spring back from her own injuries, wondered if the Maker blessed all the Seekers in such a way or if she was something special, immune to ache and complaint. The puzzle of her strength occupied him enough that he didn't think about the soldiers lost and slain on the coast, not much at least, until he was alone and the memories choked him in the dark. And back at Haven, instead of a lonely bedroll, he had his sister's fiery company to look forward to. Maybe even Josephine's long stories if he could convince her to stay up with him through the night. So he sat straight in the saddle and pushed them forward to the village even as the sun disappeared behind the mountains.

A rumble in the ground and a plume of fire and black smoke yanked him from his thoughts. It came from the far end of the west highway. Demon shrieks and the crackling sound of battle magic filled the air. Aedhin gripped the reins of his forder to steady her nerves.

"That's beyond Haven, right?" he called. Cassandra, sword drawn, rode up to him.

"Beyond yes, but close enough to threaten," she said, "If those are demon shouts..."

Aedhin's injured hand curled into a loose fist. "Another day, another rift...."

"I wish we did not have to ask this of you," she murmured, and he almost missed it, before she urged her horse forward and called orders down to their company to ride ahead and prepare for battle.

 

* * *

 

At the center of the fight, the highway burned. Four Inquisition soldiers formed a protective circle around the templar Lysette while she maintained a glowing array in the center of the road. From behind her, on the other treeline, Varric and Sera shot a steady stream of bolts and arrows, the former shouting taunts and the latter cackling with each successful hit. Further from them, a man in plain armour measured heavy shots from a heavy longbow.

At the front of it, his sister and the commander traded blows with a terror. For a split second, he watched in horror as Kiaran ducked under one of the long, glowing green limbs and erupted a stream fire from her hands.

"Kiaran!" He jumped down off the horse, twisted against his sling and tripped in the snow trying to get to her. With a frustrated growl he drew out one dagger and sliced through the fabric, barely even felt the ache as he reached back for the other blade. The mark hummed and glowed, sparkled in the dark.

He favoured his left as he struck forward with his right, blocking another strike that came down at his sister. Lightning sizzled over his shoulder in a bright purple arc, past him and Cullen and paralyzing a formless spirit lurking in the trees. Cassandra took position in front of Lysette to guard against a pair of armoured shades trying to intercept the barrier.

The earth shook as a pride demon screamed from the forest.

A final hard slash from Cullen tore the terror in half and it dissolved into a brightly coloured dust.

"Good to see you, Herald," he breathed, and turned back away. "Your timing is curiously perfect!"

"I'm trying to convince Cassandra it's part of my charm," Aedhin shrugged, "Can't have her thinking I'm a liar!" Near them, Blackwall cut through another spirit with a grunt.

"Aedhin, there's a rift in the mine!" With fumbling fingertips Kiaran pulled the cork from a glass vial and swallowed back the glowing blue liquid. She stuffed the glass into the bag across her middle and gripped her staff again. Her cloak was torn from the middle, the edges singed black.

"If we can get around the--hey!" From the back of her collar Cullen yanked her out of the way of a whip of white energy. It snapped back into the trees, into the dark claws of the pride demon.

"Focus on what's in front of you!" Cullen let her go and reset his grip on his shield. "It strikes better at a distance. If you get in close, mind it's reach. It _will_ paralyze you if it hits!"

Aedhin pulled away into the shadows under a pine, both daggers raised as he waited for the demon to lumber into the clearing. Cassandra caught its attention with a brilliant yell that echoed across the valley, brandishing sword and shield in challenge. The demon tore the trees in front of it from the earth, showering Kiaran and Cullen in dirt and gravel as it wrenched out the roots and threw the pines aside. As it closed in on Cassandra, Lysette's array lit up beneath it and held its legs in place. A bright beam of light shot up from the ground, dissipating the spirits near them and burning the outside flesh of the demon. For just a moment, the whole highway went silent from the attempt to nullify the demon's power.

An enchanter further up the road flung a sword of energy, and it flicked it away like a gnat. With a sound between a roar and a laugh, it flung its whip at the Orlesian enchanter, and wrapped tightly around his arm as he tried to dodge out of the way.

The man screamed in pain when the demon tugged back, and the arm tore clean off the socket in a spray of blood.

"Guard the Herald!" Cassandra shouted out from behind her shield, which rang against the lightning whip as the demon turned on her next.

As if by summons, Blackwall was near Aedhin again, greatsword lifted in both hands. Kiaran ducked into the snow near them, Cullen guarding nearby.

"Aedhin!" She gestured into the darkness. "Mine! Rift! Come on!"

Cullen glanced at Aedhin, and then Cassandra, who rolled under a claw swipe and slashed at the monster in an arc of light.

"Protect them! We'll manage here!" As if to emphasize the Seeker's point, Vivienne caged the demon's feet in ice.

Kiaran took off running down the cleared trail of destruction left by the demon.

The blue-grey hue of spirits formed ahead of them.

"Kiaran, hang back!" Aedhin drew back his arm to throw.

Fire exploded from the front of her staff and the forms dissipated into fog. She glanced back only once with a dark, warning look. "Don't forget where I came from," she said, almost a sneer, before she began running again. She was unexpectedly nimble sliding down the frozen ladders, never missing a step even in the blackness of the night. Was her defensive posture all an act?

The thought was gone as he stumbled down after her, the two warriors close behind.

"Eyes forward," he muttered to himself. His left arm ached from knuckles to shoulder, and as he padded into the snow of the valley, the Breach magic within it flared to life with a fizzle and pop. The snow around him glowed sickly green from the mark on his hand.

Where once had been a safely structured entrance in the stone was grossly destroyed now. In front of it, Aedhin shuddered, and hoped the one up the hill was the only pride monster they'd encounter this night. A number of the dwarven lamps were shattered in place on the wall, and the mine only looked darker further in.

"It's pretty far down," Kiaran said.

"It's pretty _dark_ ," Aedhin countered, looking past her shoulders. "We should watch our--"

A little globe of energy, whitish-blue in colour, formed in Kiaran's left palm. She strode in quickly to the darkest corner and, standing on her toes, pressed it into a crack on the wall. Without waiting, she continued ahead and placed two more orbs of light. The tunnels were silent now, but Aedhin imagined there were more demons and spirits haunting further inside, near the source.

Next to him, Cullen let out a slow, measured breath.

"You're alike in more than looks," Blackwall chided, pushing him forward, "Go on, keep up."

"Don't let _her_ hear you say that." Aedhin flipped his daggers defensively and stayed close to the wall opposite the light. For all the good that creeping in the shadows did. Every few minutes his hand flared to life with brighter and brighter energy. Beads of sweat dripped down the back of his neck. He knew the air in the mines was frigid, could see it in their puffs of breath, but that familiar, irritating fever-heat climbed from his fingers through his arm and bled across the rest of him. The closer they got, the worse the sensation became, maddeningly hot inside this shivering cold as the mark glowed brighter and brighter.

He felt like Ostwick in midsummer on the inside.

Kiaran stopped in front of the demolished camp and stuck one more light against the wall. A hint of sour light shone further down.

"It's down the tunnel and around a corner," she told them with a dropped voice, pointing. "The enchanter had a barrier on the opposite wall." Then she reached back into the pouch on her belt and took out another vial of blue. Cullen narrowed his eyes.

"What?" She gestured to the light. "These don't come for free, you know."

"Just stay further back," the commander cautioned, "Rather than exhaust yourself."

"I'm _fine_."

"I'm not doubting your capacity for combat, but with the Breach--"

Aedhin turned on them both. "Enough. Official Inquisition order. No arguing where the roof can come down." Blackwall cleared his throat to hide a chuckle. Aedhin gave him a sidelong look and then shook his head.

"Kiaran, try to put yourself where nothing can get behind you. Cullen and Blackwall will occupy the melee. I'll need cover for long enough to get that thing closed. Got it?" He hoped he could prevent worse wear on his left arm, hoped the power needed to force the rift closed wouldn't strain the injuries still healing.

"Of course." Cullen crossed his shield over his chest. "We'll do whatever you need."

Kiaran finished the lyrium potion, drummed her fingers against the staff. "Ready when you are." Purple sparks danced around her hand in the dark.

"The trick, little sister," Aedhin laughed wryly, "Is that I'm never _actually_ ready."

The fight started in a blaze.

Kiaran huffed from the far wall of the cavern, and with a sharp crack she crashed the base of her staff on the stone floor. From the tip exploded twisting arcs of lightning, ribbons of hot blue energy that danced past the men ahead of her and netted in cages around the green bubbles of fade-smoke on the floor. Blackwall was the loudest, grunts and shouts of outrage to draw the demons to him as he swung his sword with heavy, measured precision.

Aedhin disappeared, nearly seamless in the blackness of the wall on the other side, left hand tucked into his side to hide the glow of the mark. He crept one shallow footfall at a time, while the other three attacked boldly, loudly, from the other side of the cavern.

The contrasting light made it hard to see anything but the reflection of the Fade through the hole. Aedhin swallowed, extended his left hand forward. In front of him the rift flashed images of fire and the unbroken towers of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He felt the beads of sweat drip along his temples. The rift twisted and backfired to the mark on his hand, tugging him closer, and Aedhin found himself drawn into a workman's song timed with the beat of pickaxes on stone.

The rift resisted his touch, and just as it drew him close, it suddenly pushed him back. Aedhin's heels slid back, but he held his ground. A ghost near the rift turned to him. It gawked with only half a face, the other caved in around his features and spilled back against his spine. It twisted then, and its face changed to a featureless haze as it lunged toward his glowing left hand.

Across, Cullen struck in a pattern of shield, sword, shield, as a burning demon of rage followed him back toward the tunnel. He parried the assault with the expression of a man emptied; each strike came with a blank face, and his posture read absolute calm as he drew it away from the fight. With his cold stare and calculated movements, he reminded Aedhin of a lion well-versed in sizing up that which outmatched him.

Kiaran extended her free hand toward Cullen, as a single arch of lightning twisted out from her staff to ensnare a shade ahead of her. An array of sapphire-blue lit up beneath the rage demon. It bristled, rippling fire and and radiating blistering heat from its shoulders and down its back. There was a metallic _shing!_ as ice rose to entrap it in place.

Cullen's rhythm changed to the sizzle as her winter spell broke into a boil and his claymore cut across the demon like a bag of grain. Molten energy spilled and it roared, flung flame and melted stone in his direction. The commander blocked straight, side-stepped, and bashed the demon with the the flat of the shield.

Another spike of ice consumed it and it disappeared in a puff of steam.

The ghost had Aedhin cornered. Attacking with his right, defending with his left, he felt the joint of his left wrist stiffen and his fingers clamped weakly into place over the hilt of the dagger. Every other slash, the ghost healed around itself and struck at him with clumsy fists, ice cold and numbing where they touched.

He wondered...

He shoved his left fist, dagger and all, through the center of the ghost. It wriggled in a fit around him and Aedhin let the dagger fall. The cavern lit up brilliant vermillion and gold as the mark tugged again at the rift. Around him, the ghost screamed into wisps of energy until his hand vanquished it fully. The rift held shut for one heartbeat, two, before it thundered open again and more shades tumbled out.

Kiaran's high pitched yelp rang over the battle.

Through the haze of the Fade's summons, a hulking green monster bubbled up out of the ground in front of her and ripped the staff from her hands. Even as it snapped the wood in half like a twig and threw the pieces aside, her hands lit up like torches and she threw streams of fire in its face. It screamed at her, more fury than pain, generating a gust of wind and a shrill echo that shoved her back into the wall before its gnarled arm wound back to strike.

"Get down!" Cullen was the first to reach her, shoved the claymore through in a single strike as Kiaran ducked with her hands over her head. The striked seemed more of an irritation, and Aedhin watched with a sinking feeling as it turned and swiped Cullen back from it. The claws met metal armour in a heavy clang, sent the commander tripping back over the debris on the floor.

The calm was gone, replaced with a rippling and deadly fury.

Kiaran stumbled backward over broken stone to gain some distance.

Her hands shone scarlet, hazel eyes bright with blue rings of lyrium. Fire exploded under, around, above the green shrieking demon and the smell of seared skin filled the air around them. When the fire stilled, Cullen was between the two, shield, sword, shield.

Kiaran shouted. He danced back.

She obliterated it in a powerful explosion that launched the two of them full force into the cavern wall. They hit the floor with grunts of pain and the clatter of steel. Both lay motionless.

When the magic fizzled out, a pile of ash _poofed!_ harmlessly to the floor.

A banshee wailed in front of the rift.

Blackwall charged into it, a flurry of two handed hacks and slashes. It fell into ribbons.

Aedhin held his hand forward as the rift twisted images of templars marching past the mines. The miner's song kept singing, the same line, over and over, and the harder he pushed with the mark, the more out of tempo the miner sang, as the pickaxe's blows slowed.

Needles of white-hot pain danced up his fingertips through his weary limbs, and Aedhin wrenched his arm hard as if to close a door.

The entire mine shook from the force of the closure.

The glow left Aedhin's palm.

Kiaran's single lamplight flickered from the entrance to the hall, casting looming shadows around them.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen's sword and shield rang against the stone floor, glinting the small glow of the light. "Are you all right?" He picked himself up off of her, reached under her shoulders to help her sit. Kiaran let out a sound that twisted between a laugh and a sob before she curled up into a cry of pain.

Something crunched underfoot as Aedhin moved toward them.

He looked down.

A man's corpse in a ring of stones. What had once been a jaw now split apart under Aedhin's boot, ribs cracked open in a gaping hole. Entrails spilled and wept through the wound like a broken pomegranate. With a pained breath Aedhin willed the mark open, and green light illuminated the space around them. Black and green edged where the man's torso tore apart. He wore the robes of Montsimmard.

At his sister's horrified gasp he extinguished the light from his palm, picked up the dagger glinting in the rocks nearby and dragged his feet toward the tunnel. Leliana's scouts could look after this with Solas, later.

Kiaran held her hands to her chest, palms twisted inwards.

Aedhin reminded himself they couldn't feel the fever from the mark, so of course she was cold. As he turned, he realized she hadn't been wearing gloves when they came in. But her hands looked dark. Aedhin snapped back to look at her, squinting in the low light. From the pale skin of her wrists, her hands gradually darkened toward her fingertips, where her fingernails turned black. Her palms bore angry blisters and split, burnt skin, charred where it curled away from the raw, shining flesh underneath.

"...i-it's not as b-bad as it l-looks," she stuttered, teeth chattering, "C-can we please just g-go? I don't want to be near here anymore." She looked back where the corpse of the mage lay bleeding and drew closer around herself.

Aedhin looked at Cullen as Blackwall took the lead, sword first.

"You're good, Commander?"

"Nothing I can't sleep off." He nudged Kiaran ahead of them with a touch of his shield-arm. "Well done."

 

* * *

 

The trudge up to the surface went without commentary. With each light they passed, it flickered three times and then blackened, until they reached the entrance.

Blood magic. What had she been doing down here? Cullen pursed his lips as a pit formed in his stomach. She'd been with Varric and Sera at least, so there must be some explanation. The dwarf was no stranger to the horrors of blood summons, and she seemed genuine enough when her brother revealed the corpse. There were three other Orlesians when they found her on the highway, weren't there? He prayed the scouts had the forethought to keep them under supervision once they reached Haven.

He'd seen many things on Kiaran's face between Kirkwall and the Inquisition. Anxiety, defensiveness, outrage, contempt. More importantly beyond that, though, he'd never seen true fear. Not once, not as far back as he could remember. Perhaps, just like them, she learned to keep it masked and buried, sealed the holes and vulnerabilities with iron and steel. She shivered and shook as they climbed the tunnels up the mines, breaths short and small and sometimes exhaling in the smallest of whimpers. The girl clutched her hands to her like they might fall away.

He couldn't imagine the pain, and wished he could offer her something to ease it. But the words dried in his mouth when he tried to speak. The cloud of guilt hung to him worse than the ash and sweat. _Coward._ Cullen's thoughts caught in the past, years past in Kinloch with the bodies of mage and templar alike curled up, scorched, flesh peeling from bone and faces locked forever in the excruciating horror of their last moments. He could not comfort her, but felt for her pain, more than the shame or the guilt that chilled him through.

His own arms, shoulders, legs, burned and ached. Had it really been only a few short months since the Conclave explosion? He felt tired and rusty and out of practice, though the Maker was his witness to the long hours spent with Lysette and Cassandra to train him stronger. He held his head up and did not complain. Aedhin, who'd arrived to the fight in a sling, kept his marked arm carefully folded across his middle as they walked. Sweat glistened off his brow and his hair clung to his forehead and his neck. He looked like a man fresh out of a desert, not lost in the snowy valley outside of Haven.

Cullen noted to himself to make sure Solas checked in on Aedhin's health in relation to the mark.

As they reached the top, Kiaran turned to the broken stone entrance and halted, staring.

"I don't think I can seal it right now," she muttered, voice withdrawn and laced with defeat.

Aedhin tilted his head, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"No one is asking you to," Cullen said to her, keeping his voice calm and low. "Scouts will explore and close off the mine as needed when the daylight returns."

She bit hard into her lips - also blistered, he realized in the moonlight - and nodded. The warden stepped in front of her after he sheathed his sword, and offered out one hand.

"You can't climb those ladders in this state. May I assist you?"

After a pause, Kiaran nodded, and stepped closer.

Aedhin moved first, favouring his left as he climbed. Cullen stood guard until all three were ahead and took up the rear. At the top, Kiaran still shuddered and shivered. The night was cold, but with her hands burned and the adrenaline of the battle through them, he wondered if perhaps she was close to collapse. She'd casted near-constantly since the fight broke out on the road.

He sheathed his sword, set down his shield.

"Take this," he said, but didn't wait for her rejection as he dropped his mantle over her shoulders. "Even if the horses haven't fled back, it's a long journey yet." Her thanks was as soft as a whisper, but the violence in her tremors edged away some as they walked.

"I expect Cassandra's fury will well eclipse my position on this," Aedhin sighed, and scratched the back of his head. "What on earth are you doing with my sister fighting demons on the road?"

Before he could answer, Kiaran huffed.

"Sera said her friends were trapped and in trouble. Varric and I came to help. I decided not to tell anyone." Her eyes remained on the snow in front of them, as if all her focus went into her steps. "We thought it was just a collapsed tunnel."

"You're not telling the whole truth," Aedhin said, frowning, "Commander?"

"Leliana thought she'd been taken," he replied, carefully regarding as Kiaran's posture tightened, "We didn't really think much of Sera or Varric's absence but tracked their travel up the highway. Demons burst from the forest when we crossed. There were three Orlesians when we found them."

Kiaran stopped. "Three? There were four. Two warriors, a bowman, and the enchanter. One was wounded, one of the warriors. He had a greatsword, and the other had a slender sword and a belt of daggers. I mean, they might be three now, the enchanter got his arm ripped off by the demon..." All at once she seemed to pale further, and she made a small noise of discomfort. "There were four men with us when we left the mine." Kiaran stared with earnesty at them all, one by one, as if on the edge of fleeing.

"I might have miscounted in the frenzy," Cullen admitted with a frown, but he was certain there were only three new faces. "I do remember the wounded man."

"Doesn't matter." Aedhin trudged ahead of the two of them, Blackwall nearly twenty paces beyond them all, "We'll round them up in Haven when we get back and hope they're ready for a round with _Seeker Pentaghast_." The herald shook his head, wiped a hand down the front of his face. "Andraste's mercy...that could have gone worse."

The thick trees around them shielded away the moon, leaving a trail only half lit on the way back to the highway. They climbed carefully over the chaos from the battle. Stars peeked through the separating clouds above, tiny diamond glitter over an expanse of black sky. Smoking cedar and pine filled the valley like a thick perfume.

Cullen felt the back of his neck prickle like he was being watched.

He turned back to ask Kiaran what bothered her.

She wasn't there. The mantle lay forgotten on the snow.

"Lady Kiaran?"

The other two men stopped, looked around. The forest was silent.

"Kiaran!"

Blades unsheathed.

"Milady!"

The three of them split apart, pulling back tree and shaking away snow to try and find her. The snow, so disrupted from the battle, showed no trail to follow, no footprints to tell which direction she went or where she might be hiding. All around them, the forest stood still.

A little crackle of lighting sounded in the trees beneath their shouts, and then an undignified curse in rough Rivaini. On the other side of the cleared path, Aedhin gave a sharp yell and there was a clang of steel.

" _You little--_!"

Cullen would remember the following moments in pieces: Turning into a thick of pines and Kiaran's scream cutting short as she fell back through the trees. Catching her with one arm, and his sword piercing forward on instinct through the shadows. A guttural choke spluttered out of a man in black and grey and he stumbled back gushing blood into the snow.

"Curse you to hell!" Blackwall's sword cut through the leather and wool of another man that advanced on Aedhin, who cradled a bleeding left arm. Blood seeped black around the bodies in the night.

The only signature adornment on them was a small engraved pin in their hoods that glinted pewter in the low light.

Cullen looked down at Kiaran, and his heart stilled in his chest. Burned hands pressed to her throat, blood spreading in a bloom across the front of her robe, shining bright and wet on her fingertips. She stared straight with eyes wide, pupils blown, shuddering and weak. She was yet alive but her gaze turned to him and her legs gave out beneath her. Cullen held her fast and eased her against him in the snow as tears spilled from her eyes. Kiaran's breaths came in panicked, hyper gasps.

He pressed his hand firmly over her two smaller ones to try and hold shut the wound, other arm holding her securely across her shoulders.

"I won't leave," he said, sombre and certain, and clamped down his grip on her. "I'm right here."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I understand you saw some terrible shit in Kirkwall," he interrupted, raising his voice. "I get that. I saw the wreckage and it was awful. But not everyone is like that, just like all mages aren't like that crazy son of a bitch that attacked the Chantry in Hightown."

Once the wound on her neck was closed and wrapped, they hauled her up on a horse with the grey warden and took off toward Haven. Of that moment, she recalled bits and pieces of conscious thought - the fear of death, Solas' fingers cold and soothing on her throat, a hazy memory of violence she'd supported in Darktown, Aedhin shouting, Commander Cullen carrying her to the gathered horses. Too many voices and curses.

Only when they passed the first highway marker did Cullen realize her violent shiver wasn't from the cold. When he rode up to ask, Kiaran only gave the shallowest of nods, pulled his mantle tighter around her. Her bandaged grip was weak, and she struggled to keep it around her shoulders, her own clothes sporting tears and burnt back hems on the sleeves.

She barely had the strength to keep her eyes open.

But Varric's horse caught up next, and he regaled a tale of Garrett Hawke and his brother Carver, as they got mixed into a local brawl over...something. A woman started it. She couldn't remember the rest of the details, but hung to every word with the hyperfocused ferver of overdosed lyrium, eyes misting and hurting but trained unblinking on him. _The Champion pulled me out of the clinic when the mob came after it_ , she'd told Varric when they met, _When I read that it made me feel like I was in your book, too. Is that silly?_

That must have been why he kept sharing stories of the Champion. She knew the name, looked up to him, he changed what it meant to exist outside the Circle. And there was no end of it. When one short story ended, he paused to gauge her focus and began to tell another.

By the time they entered Haven, Blackwall had one arm around her and one on the reigns, the tremors were so bad.

Scouts, mages, stablehands...she ignored them all, listened with a half-present ear as Varric led her up the way to Adan's house, where the healers waited. She didn't realize she wasn't walking until the warden set her down on the bench inside Adan's cabin. Aedhin wasn't long behind them, and Varric paused the story with a promise to tell her the rest when she felt better.

The pain, the thudding pulse, all came back to her as the dwarf's voice left in the night. Her throat throbbed, a thin itching where a knife only just missed its mark. She could still feel Cullen's gloved hand pressing her bloody fingers against the wound, his hold steady around her as Blackwall ran for Solas through the snow. Golden eyes warm like cider stood out against a black sky, a calming focus to her hyperventilating panic, _I don't want to die._

_I'm right here._

Kiaran's attention snapped back to the man in front of her.

Aedhin leaned against the closed door while Adan looked her over. His assistant, a young elf girl wearing spectacles and a messy bun, carefully tended and unwrapped her hands, clicking her tongue and humming sympathetically at the blisters and burns that resisted Solas' touch. Her fingers glowed with wisps of blue, and Kiaran watched with impressed fascination as the black at her fingertips edged to red, and the burns on her palms tightened to peeling, scabbed skin.

"I gave you five potions when you first got here." The alchemist spared kindness for none, and his sharp voice wholly stole Kiaran's focus. He glared down at her with hands on his waist. "How many did you drink tonight? In how long? And did you vomit?"

"F-four," she stammered, as if her tongue couldn't make the words, "Few hours." Then, after a pause, shook her head to his last question.

The alchemist's eyebrows rose higher than she'd ever seen. "Four in a few hours? At your size? You're lucky your heart didn't stop."

Aedhin's concerned frown deepened. Kiaran debated with herself if the noise he made was a groan or a growl. "How potent are you brewing these for our people?"

As if this were a regular problem, Adan took a vial of amber liquid off the shelf. "Half now, half when the sun's over the mountains," he instructed, holding it up to her mouth. "No spells, no lyrium for at least a week. Maker's breath, you mage brats are a handful."

She swallowed it, wincing, it tasted like old vinegar and syrup and coriander. The capped bottle was handed to Aedhin.

"The rest of it when the sun's over the mountains," he repeated, staring hard at her brother. "She probably won't sleep until then. Better that way. If she eats, good. If she brings it back up, better."

Aedhin nodded. "My sister won't get into anymore trouble for the time being."

Was he worried or angry? Then, she really couldn't tell if she cared.

The rest of the night blended together, brown and black and orange and red. A fire crackling next to her, coccooned in quilts, while people came in and out of the cabin to check on Aedhin, check on her. Varric popped in again, but didn't stay long enough to finish the tale from earlier. Her hands hurt in the wrappings but Aedhin stood far enough away that it seemed too much to ask him to help.

If she slept, she couldn't remember.

Finally, light broke, and the shivers were small, nearly unnoticeable now. She drank the last of Adan's vile tonic on her own and her body ached everywhere. Her hands itched and her knuckles pulsed in swollen pain and she could feel her fingernails splitting dry at the quick.

"Try to sleep." Aedhin helped her into her cot, dumped the quilts and a fur from his own bed over her. She didn't even fight him off as he kissed the crown of her head, gave her a solid pat through the pile of blankets, and left the cabin.

When she opened her eyes next, the windows were dark, and her brother snored loudly from the other room. Kiaran pulled her arms up from under the heavy pile of blankets to pick at an itch on her neck. Her hands remained thickly wrapped in mittens of white and beige cotton and with a defeated sigh she curled up again.

 _Well_ , she thought, _There's no use in moving now._

The Fade edged at her weary mind, and she let it, acquiesced to its pull as she shut her eyes and drifted off again.

 

When they were little, they learned quickly that in the Fade they could control little pieces of themselves. In Ostwick's shadows, they pretended to rule the court, watched from the balcony of their home as Qunari assaulted the walls and failed. Donovon liked to wear a crown, and convinced her eventually to sport a tiara when they played among the ghosts and shadows, learned to summon fire, lightning, and ice in their dreamtime nursery. Sometimes they even heard the voice of their first nanny, looking for them, to put them down to sleep. Her memory never caught them in the Fade. She never knew how to look for twins born chained to it.

These days, when Kiaran let the Fade pull her, she mostly envisioned freedom. A warm jacket, clothes in leather and fine cotton, bright sunny days and silent woods as she looked for old temples and apostate hideaways. In Kirkwall she wished away bruises, aches, and chill, but since leaving, she dreamed of adventures and solitude and an endless stream of forgotten books untouched by time.

This night, there were no bandages, no threaded line of red on her neck and all her fingernails were intact.

And there was the _clarity_. She could finally complete a thought, understood exactly where she was, knew the stretch and limits of her power here. She rolled out her shoulders, felt the relief of movement and none of the trappings of the nest built on her cot.

Kiaran wandered in snow around the sleeping town, eventually made her way down past the training tents to the little dock on the frozen lake. She dusted snow from its surface and sat down with her chin in her hands. She might not have even noticed this wasn't beyond the veil, but where she expected to look on the Breach, in the darkness of the night she saw the peaks of the cliffs guarding Kirkwall, the moonlight glint of the twins in the night. Beyond that, the shifting fog hugged the tips of the Frostbacks, and carried on it whispers of the words last uttered upon them.

A girl with blue skin and eyes like the night peered up from the wood on the other side of her.

Kiaran stared in silence at first, frozen in place. The girl didn't move either, but watched her with curious, unblinking eyes.

Kiaran supposed if this was a demon and not a spirit, it would have already tried to tempt her, consume her. She scooted over, patting the bare wood next to her. "Would...you like to sit?"

The girl made no expression, and though the lake had been frozen minutes earlier, it moved in gentle waves and splashed as she hoisted herself up onto the dock. Water dripped from her hair and her clothes and the snow around them disappeared.

The water lapped gently against the lakeshore.

Kiaran pursed her lips, but a smile eked out anyway. She hadn't stepped here since the Conclave explosion, but her heart jumped every time the vision ahead of her shifted, changed, in response to her thoughts. Kirkwall looked further away now.

"Has this always been your home?" she asked, as the blue girl began to plait her tangled hair.

The spirit shrugged.

"It's not really mine either," Kiaran admitted, looking back out to the stars spilling endlessly above them. "But, for now, I suppose it is."

The girl swung her legs back and forth over the water. She pointed to where the temple used to stand, but said nothing. Kirkwall disappeared, and for a moment, a reflection of the temple shimmered before the dark eye of the Breach took its place in the sky again.

"My brother is going to fix it." Kiaran glanced back toward dream-Haven, sleeping through the night. "He's not a mage, so I don't know how he's going to do it, but that's the plan. Everyone seems to believe in him."

The girl seemed confused, and waved her hand over the water.

The face that reflected back at them was young, tight dark curls and hazel eyes, and a ghost of a circlet across his brow. His smile quirked a little to the side, and the faintest of freckles spread across his nose and forehead.

Kiaran's heart ached in her chest. "Not that brother, as much as I wish he were here." The image in the water waved goodbye before it disappeared. Kiaran stifled back a choke.

"Were you the one that warned me back then?" For some reason, Kiaran thought the voice had been a boy's, like in Kirkwall, but maybe the Fade also didn't care for such distinctions.

The girl shook her head again.

"Ah, Lady Kiaran?"

Kiaran's whole body tightened, heart pounding suddenly and her fingers numb as a voice called out to her. No one ever called her by name in the Fade, except...except for demons, looking to tempt you. Her breaths shallowed, concentrated, and before she could ask the spirit next to her for help she dove like a swan back into the water and the lake froze over once more.

Kiaran turned stiffly, but no demon waited for her.

Her brother's elven companion walked up to her with a placid expression on his face.

"I apologize, startling you seems to have scared her off--" he began.

"Please don't tell anyone," she blurted, "They're already suspicious, please don't tell them you saw me!"

Solas tilted his head to the side, and then gave her a small, understanding smile. "I've invaded your dream, not the other way around," he explained, "The only tresspaser here is me. May I join you?"

The mages in the village explained he was some kind of hedge apostate, that he learned in the Fade and knew more about it than even the First Enchanter. Their encounters previous had been brief - her miserable ride here from the Hinterlands, and the night before when he closed the cut on her throat and quickly eased the pain in her hands.

Kiaran realized she'd been staring through the process of these thoughts, and gave him a short nod.

He set his staff to the side and sat near her. "She drowned here as a girl with her parents on a pilgrimage," he explained, gesturing out to the frozen lake. "But she left peacefully and quietly, though alone. Now, she only moves the water to keep others out of it. At winter's first touch, she hardens the ice and waits for dreamers to seek her out."

Kiaran pursed her lips. "How do you know?"

He gave her a ghosted a smile, sadness at its edges. "She speaks, sometimes. Mostly, she shows it in reflections if you sit with her long enough. She's the only one that stayed since the attack on the Conclave."

"...that's dedication," Kiaran murmured, bringing her knees to her chest.

Solas nodded. Then, his smile softened, encouraging, and he reminded her briefly of Luindir as he looked to her. "I'm impressed at your clarity of focus, given the state I last saw you. Few mages can keep their composure on this side of the Veil, particularly here under the glare of the Breach. Most of your colleagues have hid from it."

"I'm not a stranger to it," she said, looking away from him and back down to the frozen lake. Donovon's face, however, remained gone. "My brother and I learned everything there...here?...in Ostwick."

He regarded her carefully. "How so? Aedhin is not a--"

She cut him off again. "No, not...doesn't Aedhin bring us up? I had a twin. We were five siblings, once." She put her head down, stared away miserably.

His expression became solemn and a hint of...anger?...moved across his eyes. Solas gave her a nod. "I'm sorry for your loss. It must have been very hard. Was it the war...?"

"No. A demon followed him out in his Harrowing. He didn't survive the Templars." She shrugged. "Anyhow, I've come here often. You learn to hide when you have to. Mostly I just watch, or journey about. I like the distraction."

"Many of my greatest friends I have met in the Fade." A smile warmed on his face again. "Spirits wandering the imprints of lost battles, dramatic loves, great changes and memories of mundane routine. You can learn a lot by watching them. It pleases me to hear you've been open to it. I've rarely come across others that see the Fade as more than something to fear."

"I had a friend here once," she admitted, "But I haven't heard from him in a long time. Maybe he's moved on."

"Here in Haven?"

After a pause, she nodded. Across the mountains, an aurora played with the light of the Breach, dancing pink, blue, green. "And once in Kirkwall. They sounded the same, anyway. Maybe they were different after all, and I'm just lucky."

"Interesting." Solas had one hand on his chin. "It's not common for spirits to move such a distance without help from the other side, but it is a blessing nonetheless. I should like to ask you more, another time." He stood. "But you are weary and your mind needs rest. When you are not slipping, we can speak again."

She looked down at herself, transparent against the dock, but when she looked up again to ask why, all she saw was stars against the sky and then everything washed to black.

 

* * *

 

Getting Josephine from her office and to his table in the tavern was a small victory. He disliked the air in the Chantry, the lingering ears of Mother Giselle and Chancellor Roderick waiting to intercept on anything, the former to push her agendas upon him and the latter to remind him of his heresy. Here in the noise, the din of celebrations and Maryden's songs, he felt safer, less watched.

"Tell me again who's receiving us when we arrive?"

She gave an exasperated sigh over her wine. "Aedhin. Lord Esmeral Abernache. Your mother was his third cousin." Unspoken, but clearly heard, was her worry that he'd ruin her hard work.

He glanced across the table at her with a smirk. "I haven't been there in probably fifteen years, maybe longer. I think I've only met him once. Do you know how long it takes to get to Orlais from Ostwick?"

Josephine pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. "Please, promise me you'll act with the utmost decorum. At least pretend to have some familiarity."

Aedhin reached and tapped his tankard against her cup. "I promise I won't do anything to scandalize you, Lady Montilyet."

"I should tell Leliana to form me a guard, shouldn't I?" Her forehead creased with concern. "I'll just go with you, and handle everything until the end and keep the Inquisition from coming under anymore scrutiny from the Orlais."

He laughed, then slowly drank back what was left of his ale. "Josephine, please. I'm rusty, but I'm no stranger to the Game. I'll bring you home a nice set of alliances along with the Templars."

She rested her chin on her hand, shook her head, but slowly a smile turned on her lips. "Perhaps you should start small with your ambition. Bring us one, and close the Breach."

"And then, you'll come with me to the Marches? I have a friend in Wycome and he throws the best parties during the hunting season. You'd love his estate. His wife's decorating is exactly your taste." He raised the empty tankard toward Flyssa, who nodded from the bar and then turned back toward the soldier sitting in front of her.

"That would be most unseemly, Lord Trevelyan." She smirked as he cringed to the title. 

"Tell our parents you're securing a marriage for me." He grinned, a wolfish smile that spread across his whole face. "After this many years, they'll never suspect a thing."

She shook her head and sipped at the wine. "Your worship, I must politely decline for now." In the candle and torchlight, she smiled at him. "There is considerable work ahead of us, once this next task is done."

He nudged her toe beneath the table with a laugh. "If you insist. You'll have to enjoy some fun once in a while. I'm persuasive. I'll convince you."

Josephine tried to purse her lips to chastise him but broke back into a smile. "I look forward to that dance, my lord." Flissa passed by with a new tankard, set it down in front of Aedhin and swiped up the empty one.

"Can I get you anything else, your worship?" she asked, with an awkward smile and fluttering lashes.

"Unless you have anything to soothe the fury of the Lady Seeker, this is perfect, Flissa." He gave her a gentle wink, and she giggled and walked away. Josephine shook her head, wordless, as Aedhin settled back into the bench.

"There is something you can do for me while we're in Ferelden," he began, and took a long drink. "I need you to reach out to Lochlan for me. There are a few books I'd like sent to me, but they're banned in Ferelden and Orlais. In Kirkwall, though, there's a price for everything."

He watched her as she regarded him, wheels turning in her mind, and Aedhin offered her an encouraging smile. "They aren't dangerous. They're just old Tevinter publications. My father had them in our library but I'd like my own copies. He'll have no trouble getting a hold of them but I'd like for you and Leliana to make sure when they arrive that no one else gets them first."

"Is that all?" She drummed her fingers against the goblet, toed the edge of his boot with her shoe. "However will I find the time?"

"Must I sweet talk you for this, too? At this rate I'm doing all the work in our relationship. This is wholly unfair." He leaned closer across the table on his elbows, waited for her eyes to meet his gaze. "Please will you reach out to my library's curator to get those for me? Must I beg?" It took everything in him not to burst out laughing. Josephine looked away innocently, hid her lips behind the brass goblet.

Like always, he was the first to break.

As he laughed, she chuckled, and her smile warmed into the corners of her eyes. "Of course, my lord. I'll see it done for your return. It will be no trouble. " As she spoke, the tavern door near them opened and in walked an exhausted looking Commander Cullen and Aedhin's equally vexed looking younger sister.

"That however, will." Josephine stood, delicately set down the empty goblet and smoothed her skirts. "I'll bid you a good night...and good luck." She nodded politely at the commander and to Kiaran, before stepping past them into the night.

Cullen gave Aedhin a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before making his way across the tavern to sit next to Rylen at the bar. He didn't even need to speak, as Flissa set a pint in front of him and then moved on to the next table that called her over.

Kiaran crossed her arms next to Aedhin's table. Aedhin avoided her eyes and slowly, steadily gulped the entirety of the tankard in his hand.

"We need to talk."

"Mm. You're not yelling. It must be important."

"I could start." She didn't move. "Can we go, please?"

He expected worse from her when word got to her about why the horses were being prepared for the morning. Casually Aedhin stood, left coins next to the empty tankard. Instead of wearing his cloak he tossed it over Kiaran's shoulders, which earned him an irritated huff.

"Aedhin, I'm almost twenty-three. Treat me like it."

He clapped her shoulder with a grin and nudged her out the door. "Sorry Kiki, I couldn't hear you over my incredible protective nature because I'm your favourite older brother."

To that, she half-smiled, tense as she was. "It's not like you have much left for competition."

"I'll let that go. This time."

As they neared the cabin, Kiaran's glower settled into place again. The joke had done little to sway her focus, and Aedhin wondered what was in store for her to hold back during the whole journey back to the house.

As soon as her bandage mittens were replaced by small gauze wrappings on the tips of her fingers, she went back to harrassing Leliana and Cullen for news on her missing friend. Blackwall, bless him, seemed to earn his sister's respect after the assassination attempt. He managed to spare Aedhin's advisors at least some of the time, as he goaded Kiaran into practicing knifeplay while she was kept from practicing magic.

But they were the end of her week of mundane, and preparing their traveling company for the trip to Therinfal. The final decisions and last preparations came that morning.

He imagined she had a few things to say.

The door barely closed behind them and she tossed the cloak on the rack and turned on him. "How could you pursue the templars after everything they've done?!"

Aedhin settled into his chair at the table, crossed his legs to look as casual as possible. "First of all, there's rampant terrorism on both sides of this war. I didn't make the decision just because the Lord Seeker is commanding templars." He shouldn't have had to make the decision at all, both sides should have reneged on their war promises and come together to combat the magic that tore open the sky. The incident in Val Royeaux still made his blood boil thick in his veins. This journey east was as personal as it was altruistic.

Kiaran paced the room, hands curled into shaking fists as she stomped back and forth. "And then what? What happens to the apostates in Haven? Did you consider that at all?! The templars are a bunch of power-mad, abusive--"

"I understand you saw some terrible shit in Kirkwall," he interrupted, raising his voice. "I _get_ that. I saw the wreckage and it was awful. But not everyone is like that, just like all mages aren't like that crazy son of a bitch that attacked the Chantry in Hightown." Aedhin watched as she abruptly stopped and turned to face him, fuming. "Most of these men and women are just like those with us here. They're like the Commander, like Blackwall. They want to do the right thing to help people. The guy in charge just happens to be wrong."

"'Like the commander'," she repeated, voice growing shrill, "Like the commander now, or back then? How do you know, Aedhin? How can you tell? It wasn't you getting locked in isolation cells or listening as the Knight-Commander put us all up for wholesale slaughter--"

" _Kiaran_ ," he warned, "This isn't up for debate. There's been no word from your friend or the Tevinter mage we met in Redcliffe. The rifts across Thedas are getting worse. The Breach needs to be closed and I'm not walking into my death in the Hinterlands." He pointed to the chair, eyes hard. They glared at each other for a long stretch of silence, Kiaran's face growing redder and her eyes darkening with each laboured breath, until she finally settled with her arms crossed in the chair across from him.

"How can you trust them--" Blood pooled in a little dot on her lip where she bit down on it, ripped the dried blister back open. "Then when this is done, they'll expect you to reinstate the circles. That's what Seeker Pentaghast wants, I've heard her and Vivienne talking. Lock up the mages and the Templars stay the heroes in this war. Fugitives end up in the prison floor, or worse!"

"You're projecting a lot." He took a few slow breaths, reminded himself not to bite onto the bait of her temper. "You've certainly got this all figured out. And you're not even the one bearing the mark."

"Oh, don't start!" She slammed a hand on the table, tried to hide the wince as her still-healing wounds reminded her of their limit. "You don't know what it was like. You can't act like you know how to keep us - me," she corrected, "safe! Because you don't know what it's like! Always being watched, always suspicious of what you want to study or what you hear from the imprints, the way they look at you like you're not even a person and you act like we're just being melodramatic but--"

He felt a dark cloud swirl at his heart. "Well, little sister, whose fault is that?"

Uneasy silence fell between them. She blinked back hard at tears in her eyes, and her voice cracked as she spoke. "I hate it when you call me that."

He drummed his fingers on the table in thought before he replied. "I'm trying my _best_. You used to trust me. I'd go to hell and back for you, you know that. Why the animousity? Why are you acting like we're all out to get you?!"

Her hazel eyes looked more bronze than jade in the firelight. Spots of red burned her cheeks, ears, and around the scabbing scar across her neck. "A decade of silence isn't something you just _shrug_ _off_ , Aedhin. I have no reason to trust you'll look out for me when you don't even know me. You never even tried. Just because you're family doesn't mean I can just trust you, especially after _this_ , or even the last ten years, never mind everything I've--"

"It wasn't for lack of trying." The bitterness came unbidden, clutched as his throat as he tried to stay cool across the table from her. His other hand at his side flexed and twitched until Aedhin realized he was picking apart the cuticle of his thumb. He closed the hand into a tight, grounding fist on his knee instead. _Look after them_ , their mother said. He tried. They never reached back. What was he supposed to do?

"Oh I'm super impressed by your late stumble into Kirkwall," she drawled, tightening her posture as far back into the chair as she could manage, arms twisted around herself.

"I wrote you letters for two _fucking_ _years_ before you were sent there."

"You can't just talk around me like you do everyone else." Kiaran pulled up one fist to rub roughly at her eyes. "That kind of misdirection won't work. When I went to the estate, when they locked away Donovon's phylactery and no one came when they buried the ashes? You weren't there. Even if you wrote a million letters--"

"So you just chose not to reply because Rodhain controls the estate?" Aedhin shook his head in disbelief. "You balk at everyone at every turn over every little slight and _that_ was what stopped you--"

"Reply to what, Aedhin?" She picked at a gnarl in the wood on the table, shook her hair in front of her face as if it would hide the angry tears that spilled from her eyes. "I wrote for help and no one ever came. And now my _heroic_ older brother is choosing the templars after all. What am I supposed to trust?"

"I never--" Then it all clicked together. He shut his eyes tightly, took several breaths. The mark glowed in his palm as his rage thudded in his ears. "I suppose I'll have to let Josephine know _that_ before we leave, as well. Maker-damned lying son of a..." _If I live to make it home I'm going to put him through a fucking wall._

The cold air might do him some good before he made it up to the Chantry. He stood and reached for the cloak, and hesitated.

"Kiaran."

"What?" Kiaran looked up now, and slowly pushed her hair back behind her ears.

"We're both stupid." He wiped a hand across his eyes. "Andraste, of course they did. _That's_ why he was so upset about Kirkwall."

He waited for her to connect the pieces, stood wordlessly near the door with only the crackling fire to fill the silence between them. Kiaran's gaze dropped downward again, and slowly the adrenaline he heard pounding in his skull softened. The glow in his hand faded.

And then her gentle, "Oh."

"Truce for the night?" he asked. Maybe on the way back he'd get in one last pint. He felt he needed it. Maybe Cullen or Varric would still be there to hear him out or distract him with a story.

She wasn't looking at him. "...yeah."

"I'll be at the War Room if you need me," Aedhin continued, "But you should probably get to packing." She snapped her head at him with wide, confused eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"Are you sending me off?"

Aedhin couldn't stop the roll of his eyes. "Andraste's mercy, Kiaran. If you weren't constantly running Cullen in circles with your arguments," he began, "You'd actually hear him when he talks. I need someone at my side that can read templars. Cassandra thinks something is wrong with the Lord Seeker. And we all agree someone there will probably try to kill me. There's no one I trust more than you right now to take the kill-shot on a rogue templar."

"...but I thought..."

He turned away from her and unlatched the door. "It's a long ride across Ferelden, Kiki. Pack quick. Cassandra's ire is not something any of us want to ignite first thing in the morning."

The door hinges creaked as it closed behind him.

At the top of the hill, he waved Leliana to follow and stepped inside the massive wooden doors of the Chantry, fists curled. He did not knock when he stepped into Josephine's office. Leliana remained posed in the corner of the room, arms folded delicately.

"Is something the matter, your worship?" Josephine stood up.

"There always is." Aedhin pointed to her writing board that lay forgotten on the desk. "Your next post to Ostwick will close the doors on our relationship with my family. Period."

She regarded him in horror. "You can't be serious! We depend on the Marches--"

"Then get what you need from Kirkwall and remind my brother how fortunate it is that I am _modest in temper_. Those words exactly."

"But, but that is social suicide in the wake of our--"

Aedhin's hand came down on the table in a loud, resolute thud. "After you remind my brother to mind his own affairs, going forward there will not be a single communication to or through Ostwick without my explicit oversight. Not one. Am I clear?"

Josephine looked across to Leliana for support.

The nightingale's face was unreadable.

Eventually, Josephine nodded. Her lips tightened into a thin line. "I want you to know that I disagree completely, but as the...leader...of our endeavours...I will respect your decision and will see this is the first missive sent in the morning."

Aedhin nodded, felt the fury simmer down and bury itself within him. He let out the breath he didn't realize he'd held. He finally acknowledged Leliana behind them.

"If you can spare anyone to do some digging, find out where those crows came from. I expected a price on me. Not my sister."

Leliana nodded, brought a finger to her chin. "You think it is more personal, as well."

"I shouldn't have to. And here we are." Aedhin straightened, took another breath, put both hands on his hips to center himself. He turned away from the desk and walked toward the door. His hand hovered over the handle.

""Josephine?"

"Yes, my lord?" Her voice betrayed only the barest hint of her disapproval.

"I'll be back soon. Try not to worry." He let the door shut softly behind him, but instead of leaving for the Chantry entrance, he turned into the war room instead, where nearly burned down lamps cast shadows on the map across the table. Until the lamps were on their last sputters, he stood in silence over it with his fingers dancing over points of interest in the west.

When second last lamp guttered out, he grabbed a handful of Cullen's markers from the side tray and pinned them into the map at an angle.

"If power and clout is what we need, then that's what I'll get," he muttered out loud, tapped his finger against the pin in the map.

He had, after all, worse family than that arguing over the throne in Orlais.

With the vision set, he could picture the eventual victory in his mind, and the wealth of resources to alleviate all of their current struggles buried with them in Haven. And then suddenly feeling sick and overcome with weariness, Aedhin turned the last lamp out and trudged with heavy feet, out the door into the cold winter wind.

The fire burned bright in the cabin when he returned.

Kiaran looked up from the tome in her lap, but said nothing, only got up to draw close the curtain to her room and hide away for the night.

His cot groaned as he sunk into it, and though his eyes came to rest easy, his mind did not.

The light broke over Haven a few hours later.

When he stepped out, Kiaran sat at the table rewrapping her fingers. She turned away from him. "I still don't want to talk." She tied off the gauze knots with her teeth.

"I'm not much of a morning person either," he replied, voice thick. Aedhin tossed her her cloak, pulled his lazily over his shoulders. "Well, come on. Back to Ferelden we go."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With scales like that, this particular dragon might do best in Orlais as an exclusively hideous set of boots and riding leathers. The thought brought him some comfort, but unable to stay distracted for long, worry edged in first in his mind and settled cold in the pit of his stomach.

"Was it you that said, 'We should destroy that jetty to buy us more time'?!"

Luin dragged Dorian by the arm into cover against a boulder as a bolt of fire ripped forth from the dragon's mouth. The air around them shimmered with heat and Luin slammed his bow down against the grass, shooting forth a sparkling wave of winter energy that turned Shayna's Valley behind them into a frosted rink. The elf took off running further toward the valley's shadow, where open water glittered beyond the cliffs.

"Andruil mocks me for taking strategic advice from a scholar!" 

Dorian couldn't help it, he laughed even as they dove under a curve of bushes. "Come on, it's not so bad! Plenty of people have survived fights with dragons!"

Luin wasted no time grappling through the earth, bright blue eyes scanning the mountainside as he scurried along. Dorian found himself scrambling behind him, unable to find purchase in the sandy dirt as they rummaged through on all fours to hide from the dragon. Andraste preserve him. This was worse than the digging!

She followed them beyond the ravine, screeching and roaring as heat burst around her in furious energy.

"Keep up, Tevinter!" Luin leapt with the grace of a cat onto a rise of broken stone, extended Dorian an open palm and hauled him up with him, his eyes never leaving the mountainface. The dragon landed less than a hundred metres away. Her bright yellow scales gleamed in the noon sun.

"Any Dalish wisdom on dragon hunting?!" Dorian pressed as they ran.

" _Fenedhis_! Do you ever shut up?"

The dragon then caught sight them, and beat her wings in challenge.

Luin let out another string of curses and drove the longbow down with a flash of bright green. He grappled Dorian to the ground with him and clamped one leg over his thigh as light enveloped them both. The gusts from the dragon wings almost knocked them over each other as it tugged them along, inches at a time. The tree nearest them swayed and groaned as suddenly roots twisted from the earth and tethered them against the rock.

He'd heard of Dalish earth magic, and thought it all conjecture and fairy-tale until now, as it chained him to the very ground and held them fast against the dragon's pull.

Luin's mouth moved against his ear in the noise of rock and brush sweeping past them in the winds.

"As soon as she stills, prepare to run," he said, a threatening whisper, "There's a cave ahead!"

Dorian suppressed the chill that ran down his spine, merely nodded, feeling profoundly wordless for the first time in many years. He gripped his staff, tensed for the moment the dragon changed the course of her assault. The moment she ceased her attack to rage fire at them again, the roots snapped back into the stone and Luin dragged him up once more.

Dorian tripped, cracked his knee hard against broken earth in his stumble, felt his left palm tear open as he pushed himself up off the jagged ruin beneath them and bolted after Luin. The elf sprinted with a grace he could only describe as otherworldly, feet barely touching the earth and never a missed step, even as he skidded downward to the shadowed hangover against the mountain.

Inferno consumed everything behind them.

Dorian all but fell into the narrow opening, felt the hairs singe and smoke at the back of his neck as he crashed headlong into his companion's armoured shoulder. Orange and red burned against the entrance, licking inward at them and clouding the crevice with smoke.The tunnel was narrow and they stepped over each other's feet as they pushed their way through.

The dragon slammed against the mountainside after them.

Dorian would deny forever the frightened tug he made at Luin's coat sleeve.

The crevice eventually broke into a wider chamber - an actual hall, by the smoothness of the rock - and before Dorian could comment his relief, Luin clapped a hand across his mouth and pressed him against the wall.

"Just...silence...until she's moved on," came the breathless whisper, warm on his ear, "then we may rest."

Dorian gave the slightest of nods, pursed his lips to make a point of deferring to his judgement. The elf eased off one hand after several moments. A dwarven lamp a far ways down the hall glowed faintly, enough to make the darkness a familiar kind of threatening, casting shadows along every crevice of tile, every corner, each shape.

Luin wasn't even a little bit physically imposing, more leather and metal than especially tall or broad, but his eyes stared slitted and focused like a dangerous animal, every breath shallow and silent, his other hand pressed solidly against Dorian's shoulder. There was only an inch, maybe, in their height difference (in Dorian's favour, of course) but he considered in those long minutes that he might actually be outmatched against this skinny Dalish hunter.

The ground rattled more and the roar outside echoed as if very distant.

Eventually, all Dorian could hear were their careful, shaking, adrenaline-taut panting.

Luin released his grip.

"Honestly, I don't mean to harp on the subject but this is the worst romantic getaway I've ever had the misfortune of being on," Dorian said with a nervous chuckle. He touched the back of his neck, which stung like sunburn.

The cavern lit up with a glow from Luin's fingers as he slipped them into his shirt. He hissed as his fingers touched the wounds, and rolled his head back against the wall with his jaw clenched.

"Don't you Tevinters worship dragons? Can't _you_ appease her or something?"

"I could offer you as dinner," Dorian fired back, "And then maybe we'll see!"

Luin laughed, a deep-bellied sound even through his wheezing pain. "I can't believe I just outran a dragon like this."

"There's no 'I' in team, you know."

"Ah, I'm sorry Dorian, I forgot you were running _with_ me amongst all that stumbling and screaming like a little boy."

Dorian huffed, felt his face burn hot. "Don't mistake my grace and perfect voice for _your_ frightened cries."

"Ah, yes, I must have grabbed at my own arm in fear back there," Luin teased as he sunk to the smooth stone floor. "Tell me, would you like me to hold your hand and comfort you?"

"If you're going to offer me your body you could at least step it up a notch," Dorian scowled, eventually joined him in sitting down. Luindir chuckled to himself, as if there were a joke Dorian didn't quite understand.

"I take it that you have never encountered one before." Luin fiddled with the earrings along his left ear and bent both knees in front of his chest. His gaze was distant, looking beyond the lamp at the end of the hallway.

"I grew up in the sprawling metropolis of Minrathous. This kind of backwater traipsing was only ever a figment of my nightmares!" Dorian stretched his legs in front of him, crossed his ankles, and tried to look casual instead of exhausted. "Don't tell me you've actually hunted these too. What other kind of tricks are you hiding?" He could still feel the dry, rigid roots of the old tree snaking around his waist and thighs, locking him to the ground, the magic that thrummed both old and timeless in Luin's fingers as he held him down.

"Never hunted," the elf confirmed after a pause, "Chasing after a dragon would be...irresponsible." Dorian watched as he pinched one cuff in particular, a longer one engraved and chained to the second loop in his earlobe. Dorian went to speak, when Luin continued,

"But, there was one my friends and I led to a slaver's encampment, once. They're no less predictable than any other predator."

Dorian couldn't tell if he meant the dragons, or the slavers. "Luin the Artist setting dragon traps? Surely this was among your elders' grievances as well. Does the Herald's sweet little sister know what kind of troublemaker you are?"

Luin only laughed, an almost wistful sound, and settled both arms across his knees. "We were careful not to let that particular endeavour get back to our Keeper or First." He glanced back over. "Are you injured? You fell earlier."

Dorian waved him off. "Nonsense, it'll take more than the savage wilderness of Ferelden to bring harm to me." His palm closed easily with a spell of healing, but his knee throbbed and ached something fierce. The yell had been enough to be called out on, so Dorian elected to keep the injury to himself. Salvage what little of his ego he could.

"Manipulating the earth cost me a degree of strength. I might ask we rest a little before exploring further."

"I have no complaints about any rest. Ever." A comfortable quiet came over them, and Luin's wheezing breaths gently softened until Dorian could barely hear him breath - a half-sleeping doze that Dorian recognized as the elf's way of power-napping. Either he did not trust Dorian to defend them if something else happened, or he thought Dorian incapable of taking the watch as he regained his strength.

Perhaps he deserved that judgement. When he thought Luin too weak to continue, he planned to leave him behind in the Crossroads while he investigated the east road. And yet, without him Dorian might have ended up...

No wonder his ancient ancestors worshipped them.

 _Just like any other predator indeed_ , he thought, face twisting into a scowl once more. With scales like that, this particular dragon might do best in Orlais as an exclusively hideous set of boots and riding leathers. The thought brought him some comfort, but unable to stay distracted for long, worry edged in first in his mind and settled cold in the pit of his stomach.

Taking the amulet began a Venatori witchhunt anew in the Hinterlands. By the time they made it to the Crossroads, most of the Inquisition forces were spread out along the mountain paths setting traps. The scouts still there did not recognize either of them. Dorian suggested they stay low, did not trust strangers to deliver their news to Haven. And so they bought what supplies they could and stopped long enough for Redcliffe's old healer to take a look at Luin's chest, before the rumours found them. The east road, plagued with bandits and Venatori alike, seemed to be the main source of aggression in the area.

The jetty at old Redcliffe connected to the rivers that flowed to the sea in the north. Traveling by boat meant less trouble with the Inquisition than traveling by foot.

 

_"It'll be easy. We'll burn down the jetty, loop around back toward the west road and head north into Haven."_

_"The Inquisition couldn't handle this?"_

_"Not if it's guarded with mages trained by the Magisterium. The jetty may already look like the outskirts of Redcliffe castle."_

 

And now they were trapped here...by a dragon, no less, not Tevinter cultists...what happened if Aedhin let Alexius bait him without knowing what he was headed for? Whatever that glowing mark, they couldn't let the Venatori's 'Elder One' claim it. No matter the cost.

A soothing hum from his companion brought him back to the moment from his thoughts, and Dorian turned to tease him.

Luin still dozed.

Seductive, enticing, and numbing, the song thrummed barely-there in the air around them. Dorian got to his feet and gave Luin's shoulder a gentle shove.

"Get up."

"What is it?"

"Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"The hum. It sounds like..." Dorian trailed off.

Luin's eyes narrowed as he got to his feet. "It sounds exactly like it." He took an arrow from the quiver on his back and notched it casually in the longbow. Shadow from the low light stretched across the hollows of the elf's face and his expression matched the one he wore in Dorian's nightmares.

"Perhaps this is where it all starts..." he began.

Luin walked ahead, arrow at the ready. "Perhaps this is where it ends."

The same voice he used in the castle proper before they confronted the demon. Dorian followed, but hung back, watched the elf's calculated, confident gait as they traveled the tunnel. He found himself wondering what exactly Luin planned to do when they discovered where the red lyrium was. They were both mages. Neither of them could even approach the unrefined mineral without mortal risk. It wasn't a substance anyone could just handle and he didn't know the first thing about neutralizing the red kind, let alone destroy it.

His mind raced. Was this a primary part of the Venatori's plan? To spread red lyrium around Thedas until it made the whole of the continent sick? It wasn't _unlike_ Tevinter's old money to engage in biological warfare but what happened when one intrepid soul saw a business opportunity in shipping the blasted mineral back home?

The long-term ramifications aside, what about Lavellan? Dorian regarded Luin's dark side with a cautious paranoia. This man who had an hour ago teased him while they nursed their injuries in the dark, now stared ahead of them with a look of absolute murder. And while he'd heard enough in the cabin to guess at the layers of trauma Luin buried inside of him, Dorian had a hard time believing a whole other person could hide so well beneath such a genuinely calm facade...

Didn't red lyrium invite madness at the barest exposure?

Well, he didn't make it this far from home by pure accident. If Luin turned on him in the wake of another nightmare episode he'd just have to find a way to knock him unconscious and get him outside where there was none of it.

Just a hungry dragon.

The sound he made came somewhere between a wry laugh and a moan of horror.

Luin stopped, glanced back at him with a dangerously unimpressed expression.

"Just reflecting on our poor luck," Dorian said, tried to warm a smile on his face. "I suppose it's a good sign our partnership carries so well amongst all the violence."

The elf's tight posture slacked, and he stood straight, staring. "What aren't you telling me?"

Called on his bluff! Were the Dalish psychic? Dorian could only wonder. Not even his closest compatriots back home could pick him apart. "Well..."

"Well?" Luin held the bow between them like a shield.

Dorian raised his free hand in an attempt to bridge some peace. "Your intensity has me on edge." It wasn't a complete deviation from the truth of it. He wasn't sure the confines of an old dwarven tunnel was where he wanted to have this confrontation.

Luin tilted his head slightly, as if he didn't quite hear him. "And?"

Dorian exhaled slowly, felt the sweat beading at his temples, the anxious burning and choking feeling at the collar of his coat. "I'd normally find it an attractive quality, if it showed more than when we chase after red lyrium. I'm just concerned."

"I will not leave the people just hours from here undefended from Tevinter's monsters or the corruption they bring with them," Luin spoke, voice quiet, slow, haunted. "Invariably, that evil always spreads if it is ignored."

Tevinter's monsters.

"It's an unpopular opinion in the south but these kinds of people do exist _everywhere_ , you know," Dorian said, lowering his hand as the smile faded from his face. "And I'm always more than happy to cause abject chaos where necessary to stop it but I also don't fancy dying while I'm still young."

"You won't die." Luin turned away from him and continued down the hall, turned right at the first corner. "I won't let you."

Dorian chewed on his lip, with just the smallest nod of acceptance before he straightened his shoulders and followed after. Not the answer he wanted, but...

Tevinter's monsters. Was he one of them? Would he look like one under the red glow of lyrium corrupted inside the mountain?

Dorian settled for following a few more steps behind. It didn't hurt to stay prepared. But did he truly fear Luin, or did the lyrium prey on him too? He didn't know if he wanted the answer. He said nothing more, and tried to think of better things as the hallways sang and bitter wariness pinched and twisted inside of him.

 

* * *

 

Outrunning a dragon, it seemed, would be the hardest task of the day.

The lyrium that hummed through the tunnels turned out to be one glowing mass further in, where a blue vein cut off suddenly and bled red against the walls. The cavern was empty, save for two dwarves dead in front of the growth. Their faces, the only exposed part of their bodies, were covered in swollen veins coloured like bruises. Luin gave an audible sigh of relief that no mages or monsters waited for them near the singing stone.

The equipment followed another path out the mountain. Far away from them, stars shone out in the night, a barely-seen glimmer thanks to the bright red glow in the cave.

The vibration sang like a funeral pyre: strong, compelling, and sad. When they passed the enormous crystal, Luin averted his gaze and held his breath until they passed. He could feel the frailty of the Veil in its presence, demons waiting for it to go threadbare, reaching, calling, pushing...

"We should be cautious of using magic while here," he said.

Dorian scoffed. "Do you think so? What ever for?"

"Your humour is inappropriate."

"I was educated by the best tutors in Tevinter. I don't need anyone's unnecessary advice on how to avoid handling raw lyrium." Dorian's tone was icy. "In fact, I almost recall myself suggesting to you that we leave it be. Did I do that, or is it an illusion from the lyrium?"

Luin bit on his tongue, bit down on the unbidden snappy remark he wanted to say. How Dorian managed to survive the journey from Tevinter's north down to Ferelden remained a mystery. Luindir watched many a mercenary cut out a man's tongue for less.

"I can...charge an arrow from the outside to damage this vein," Luin explained, struggling between anger and breathlessness as the sound pounded inside his head. "Strong enough ice can fracture lyrium." He almost couldn't ignore Dorian's suspicious stare.

"How on earth could a Dalish elf know such a thing? Do you take dwarves into your clans?"

His next breath came out like a hiss. "Because my whole life was built on protecting my people, ser magister. Learning things like that was the difference between life and death."

An unhappy simmer of silence stretched between them.

Dorian stood straight and folded his arms. "Do you often make assumptions about people you've just met?"

Luindir's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?" He wasn't surprised, but felt a small swell of disappointment within him that Dorian's airy company would eventually fade away to this. Keeper Deshanna wanted to believe the agreeable kind were more than a few, constructed all of his teachings around that principle.

Luin wondered who the Keeper actually wanted to convince.

"I'm not a magister at all. The Imperium's been around for thousands of years and you southerners still can't be bothered to learn the difference." Before he could answer, Dorian raised a finger to continue. "Furthermore, on behalf of the few people actively doing some good in the Magisterium, you could do them the courtesy of not dripping so much venom when you utter the word magister. It makes you look ignorant at best and brutally _savage_ at worst."

Anger flooded him like fire, unfamiliar, unwanted, as Dorian emphasized the word _savage._ He swiveled back and grabbed Dorian by his coat. "You dare to lecture me about my experience with Tevinter?"

Dorian grabbed his wrist. "No. I am utterly exhausted by your one-sided aggression, darling. Haven't I earned your trust?"

They stood eye to eye, Dorian's gaze flickering with the barest hint of challenge as Luin struggled to stay composed. Finally, with the red lyrium sounding loud and high as a whistle in his ears, Luin eased his grip. Fighting Dorian was not helpful.

"No. Maybe, I--" A bright, rippling pain shot across his wounded chest and he let go of Dorian to clutch at it. When he looked up all he could see was scarlet, felt the searing pain of demon claws as if he were back in that broken throne room, but instead of the portal behind him the walls of the ruins were splattered in blood and broken bones in piles on the floor. A wail cut through the shrieking melody of the lyrium.

He summoned ice in his hands, struck forward even as heat and acid consumed him through his clothes.

He never feared demons before, not even this one red and burning and emanating sheer, maddening power in front of him.

Luin lunged.

There was a sound like thunder and then the crackle of lightning next to his ear, next to the cluster of scabs where he'd been hit before. The spell in his hands broke, falling apart as dusty snowflakes and Luin reached back for the dagger in his belt.

He felt nothing.

A numbing coldness and eery silence fell around him, and where before each breath rattled and ached, he inhaled smoothly, gentle, dreamlike. The red demon faded colourless, and then ceased to exist at all.

Sound came back first as a crackling fire, and the bubbling of a willowbark brew. When he opened his eyes, they throbbed, much like his head, and shadow surrounded everywhere but the fire in front of him. His bow and quiver were stacked carefully against a broken log, and his tool belt folded neatly over them.

His wrists were bound behind him with the twine rope from his pack.

Dorian's light-eyed glower met him across the flame.

"Twice now you've tried to kill me, if we don't count that arrow in the Redcliffe chantry," he began, unmoving from where he sat. "And you almost took out the both of us going after that lyrium crystal. Tell me why I should trust you again."

Luin tried to twist out of the knots, but his limbs were heavy and his fingers clawed clumsily at the rope.

"Don't bother. Your limbs will be numb for a few more hours yet." Dorian waited for Luin to meet his gaze. "Now, who am I speaking with - Luindir the Artist, or his ghosts?"

Luin felt his stomach drop. "I...what? The red lyrium..."

"Yes, you're very sensitive to it. Thought you'd actually lost your mind this time." He still hadn't moved, except to lean forward from the stone which he sat. "I'm not untying you until I know for sure. I can't assist you if I don't know what we're fighting and I don't much care to put my well-being in your hands right now. I'm sure you understand." A bright red cut gleamed from Dorian's chin, down across his throat.

Luin pursed his lips, dropped his gaze to the dark dirt at his feet as a hollow feeling spread through him. He remembered nothing, except for blinding rage and a pressing anxiety that it wasn't enough, that someone would be left behind.

There was no one here.

The clan was far from danger, across the Waking Sea.

Luin squeezed his eyes shut and bent his head to his knees. "I'm sorry, Dorian." He let his posture slack, stopped fighting the slicing bite of the twine holding back his hands. "It's just, once, I--"

"I can't stop being Tevinter anymore than you can stop being Dalish so let's find the middle ground before one of us ends up a trophy for the Venatori." Finally he stood, took one step, hesitated - as if doubting suddenly this were a good idea.

Luin forced his eyes open, to see the ground and the fire and the clouded night sky above them to feel here, that moment, not the fractured memories and pieces of the underground crypt when he tried to get Aerin and Lirinnea home. The screeching sound of metal dragged on metal, the crunch of bone crushed under rock and picks chipping, wooden handles splintering when the steel crashed against ancient carved stone.

"Untie me," his voice twisted and tangled, a high-pitched beg as he suddenly lashed his wrists apart as far as the rope would let. "I can't feel anything else, Dorian--"

The other man's hands were warm, and with a single tug the twine fell loose to the dirt. Luin clutched his arms close to him, thought of glasswork and children playing with toys carved from old wood.

Dorian gave him an awkward, heavy-handed pat on the shoulder. "Were...you enslaved once?" His voice had quieted, an unsure but comforting tone.

A long pause of thought later, and Luin's breaths steadied. He lifted his head. "I was not, but..."

"Ah. I understand." Dorian stepped away, back to his rucksack where he leaned with his arms folded behind his head. "Terrible burden, feelings. Responsibility." He closed both eyes for a moment, and then looked over.

"Honestly. Are you well enough to travel?" He pointed to the sky, where the glow of the Breach broke through the cloud cover in the distance. "This isn't going away any time soon."

"I will be." Luin turned his back to Dorian, gracelessly tucked one arm beneath his head and kept the other against the healing wounds beneath his shirt.

"...glad to hear it. Also, one more mark on my perfect face and we'll be enemies for life, thought I'd warn you. I can't just show up to the Inquisition looking like some kind of thug. My mother would never forgive me."

Luin said nothing, but cringed as the guilt swelled within him.

"Well, that was a joke," Dorian continued, "You could have laughed at it. You know. End the awkward moment."

"I can't think clearly right now," Luin lied, voice dropping, almost a whisper.

"Good thing you have a brilliant soul like me to show you the way. Should I tell another?"

Luin sighed, tried not to wince as the throbbing in his skull resounded with a much more painful pulse. "Yes," he said, "I could stand to listen a while longer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough week...getting the time to edit this chapter was insane. 
> 
> Some companion pieces are coming soon, snapshots I've eliminated from the story to keep the main pieces moving. Regular weekend updates will resume as usual.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It reverberates in this place," Solas said, staring ahead as if he could see through the walls. "And the Veil is yet thinner further up."

The journey across Ferelden came with a blissful quiet.

They stumbled once across a den of bears, which Kiaran and Solas blockaded quickly in a thin wall ice to avoid the fight.

Only a score of soldiers and the Iron Bull's Chargers followed them out of Haven. At night, while they anticipated another move from the Antivan Crows, none came.

This was the longest stretch of calm Cassandra had seen since before her last trip to search for Hawke.

Even the siblings, who so often argued, kept their disagreement to a polite simmer on the road. Aedhin teased his sister, she deflected him with varying degrees of disinterest and kept to herself the rest of the time. In the night, Cassandra noticed her sketching out the local herbs that Solas picked near their tents. She wondered how much of it stemmed from what Aedhin shared with her in that shadowed passage, and how much she learned living on the streets in Kirkwall. Once, she attempted polite conversation, but Kiaran kept her icy tone and answered just the barest. Her eyes never left Cassandra's sword.

Still, as they rode closer, no word waited for them at the Inquisition posts along the road. No comment from the Lord Seeker, no more information gleamed from Cullen's associates or any of Leliana's contacts on the inside. Quiet did not always bear a symbol of peace among the Order, and it shouldn't, not with the seige of Redcliffe Castle by the rebel mages. Digging out the Lord Seeker's motives proved an endless guessing game. He did not need money, nor did he need the power of nobles. And she'd never known him to thrive in melodrama. The pompous show in Val Royeaux as he publicly denounced the Chantry was wildly uncharacteristic and she felt a growing, anxious discomfort in her bones each time she reflected on it.

Was it some effect of the Breach?

And what of the Seekers of Truth?

Early on, they rejected her for her departure but they all held the same vision in their hearts: to protect the world of the Maker, to enact his will. Something was wrong. At least some of them had to see, understand, support the efforts of the Inquisition. The symbol of the Inquisition was chained eternally to the path of the Seekers. Why were they silent?

"You could try harder to hide the fact that we're probably going into a confrontation." Aedhin's cheery taunt jilted her from her thoughts. With a click of his tongue and a gentle tug of the reins, he eased his horse into pace with hers.

"Tch." She gave a shake of her head. "The very pageantry of this endeavour makes me yearn for battle."

"You must get invited to all the parties back home."

"My home was at the Divine's side." She glanced back at him, felt the prickle of irritation at how casually he leaned in the saddle, leaned toward her. "I've no patience nor care for frivolity or debauchery."

There it was, the wiggling eyebrows and the rogue's smirk he wore like a badge of honour. "No debauchery at all? You've got to be kidding."

"I am not," she protested, felt the annoyed fluster burn across her cheeks, "And I have no respect for those who pursue it so loftily!" Hastily she cleared her throat and dropped her voice. Several of their companions glanced over; Blackwall with an unreadable mirth in his eyes, and Kiaran turning back to her book with an irritated eyeroll.

Aedhin chuckled. "It's not possible to be as well-read as you are and not enjoy at least the display. Some of the best work from Tevinter and Nevarra is the scathing allegory of _too much fun_."

"Well-written literature and reality are not meant to intersect," she said, surprised herself at her aggressively certain tone. Cassandra wondered what he dared imply, and her heart jumped for a moment in fear that he poked around too much and found her secret collection buried in her chest of belongings in the Chantry. Or worse, Leliana! That decided it. She'd have to burn all of them before --

He was still speaking. "...actually, on that subject, there's an Orlesian play you'd hate, but in a good way."

"There is no good way to hate something," she shot back dourly, "It is either good, or it is not."

"Oh trust me, Orlesian theatre is awful," he continued, "Don't ever watch it, you have to read it --don't tell that to Josephine. Anyway, as a political drama, it's the standard plotting and revenge, coup d'etat, et cetera..."

"You are not doing a very good job to sell me on this."

"Shh, shh, Cassandra, let me _finish_."

"You're so _annoying_ ," came his sister's mutter, metres away, and she rode forward and away to where Solas followed silently along the treeline. She scarcely left his side when the sun shone above them, though they never spoke about anything more personal than the greenery.

"She doesn't mean it," Aedhin assured Cassandra with a wave of his hand, green eyes almost gleaming in the sun. "I'm her favourite."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, to tell him to _get to the point_.

"Right, right, so, it's great as a political drama and the Orlesians take that _very_ seriously but if you read it in the text it's supposed to be a _comedy._ The written puns alone are absolute gold, but they don't carry well in translation. The next time we're in Val Royeaux I'll have to find you a copy. The historical commentary on the Imperium and the early Empire are honestly worth all the awful productions the stage has made since." His face glowed. "And, the affairs are absolutely the best kind of scandal." Cassandra turned away to look on ahead of the road, which stretched and wound miles ahead, unobstructed. There was nothing to watch out for.

"If you recommend it, I suppose I will give it a read when this is done."

She attempted to ignore his triumphant smile. Their time buried underground still felt like a hazy dream, almost nightmare, and she tried not to dwell on how shocked she was that the common ground of books came as such an easy topic. The conversations never came with the mocking she braced herself for. For many, it was page or pike, never both. But he pursued her now with a childish excitement to hear her opinion, on everything: crime serials, old epics, broken translations, and banned poetry. She found it hard to listen to him, worried instead on how to turn the incredulous stares of their party back around to the tasks at hand.

Cassandra supposed she should be grateful he wanted to talk about library catalogues and not their intimate near-death encounter itself. Or the intimate encounter that didn't involve near-death, a brush of cold noses and warm mouths and burning hot cheeks and a confident hand pressing the small of her back--

Which, she most conveniently did not dwell on, ever, even a little, except to remind herself that she should be more alert and not so easily spooked by shadows and enclosed spaces. Surely, only more of those lay ahead in her future, both proverbial and literal if her former colleagues remained absent.

"Well, I almost had you distracted." The herald's voice dropped a little, an almost wistful sound. She glanced back to him.

"If it upsets you, then I apologize." Cassandra waited for him to say more, but he only shrugged. "There is much to this that we are not aware of. If we are not aware, we are not prepared."

"We've already escaped demons, darkspawn, and death warrants," he pointed out, crooked little grin growing again. "I'm not worried."

"You _should_ be." Carelessness clung to him like a disease. Maker preserve her for her patience.

"With you beside me there's really no other result possible but a win." He winked. "You do the slicing, I'll do the stabbing, then I yell a bit and everything goes our way." Aedhin reached over to give her a playful nudge. She couldn't possibly frown any deeper.

"Besides, I promised Josephine I'd bring her Templars and Orlesian support. You'll get them all into line, won't you?" He laughed as her eyebrow lifted even higher in warning, and he raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

"I mean it sincerely," Aedhin continued. His smirk softened. "Whatever the Lord Seeker has to offer, we'll turn it our way."

"The Maker will guide us," Cassandra confirmed, hoped it didn't sound as hollow as her outlook on the task ahead. Aedhin nodded and tugged his horse away from hers. He turned back down the road to where the Chargers flanked the rear of the party.

She wondered where his faith in her was grounded. Perhaps she should ask.

He never questioned the part he had to play in this, she noticed. Many would. From that first stumble out of the Chantry in the midst of the Breach's attack, to his direct address of the Order, Aedhin never rejected his ownership, his role in closing the Breach. For all his blasphemy and callous running commentary, he did not reject the Inquisition. Even in chains.

How did he meld so comfortably into every situation?

She shut her eyes but all she saw was darkness, felt the sensation of metal on metal as they shifted against each other and bantered in the silence and the cold.

Cassandra shook herself from the memory, sat taller in the saddle and lifted her chin, let the bright morning sun warm over her face. To lose focus could mean life or death for them all.

So instead, she rode to the front with the scouts, and ran through her mind again any possible combination of powers and scenarios that awaited them in Therinfal Redoubt.

 

* * *

 

Kiaran had never been to Orlais, only knew the country through her mother and the Orlesian families that flourished in Kirkwall. Within the first hour of arriving on the old Order fortress, she decided that she maybe never wanted to see Orlais. The nobles and their escorts dressed as if they were ready for a party, the ladies and men both glittering in gems and metallic embroidery, gauzy veils and polished masks of silver and gold.

Their...cousin? Uncle? She hadn't actually been listening when Aedhin went through Josephine's notes on everyone and he was _old_ , at any rate...Lord Abernache was the first to greet them, gave both a flourishing kiss to the air beside their cheeks.

It took every ounce of control she'd ever known not to reach back and take the steel-bladed staff from the strap on her back.

"You remind me so much of Jeanette," he said, pulling a gloved hand patronizingly through Kiaran's loose hair, "Pity your brother didn't think to keep you out of the sun." She bit her tongue so hard she tasted iron and copper. forced a smile so tight that her cheek twitched. Kiaran was reminded of those early days with the Silver Hornets, when the runners gauged her baby-face and determined what use they could make of her. The days before they watched her burn a man for--

She fought the grimace at the memory until Abernache turned to address her brother. They walked up the hill overlooking the fortress and the valley below.

Kiaran ducked away from the conversation, and found a better comfort in the circle of her brother's companions instead. Seeker Pentaghast looked as irritated as ever, and though she said nothing, her disdain toward the Orlesians and their escorts could be felt without explanation. And if the Seeker truly distrusted mages, it did not show in her gaze like the contempt for the rich and careless. She felt better on this side of Cassandra's scorn.

Kiaran stood in the safety of their shadows; the Seeker in her gleaming Inquisition armour, Warden Blackwall and his dark polished iron and steel. Behind them, Solas leaned near the Inquisition supply caravan, with his staff tucked casually in his elbow. Under a fur-edged coat, even Solas wore hardened leather. He looked as if he only half-listened to Varric, who brainstormed a story behind all of the masks and young templars lining the bridge to the fort. Even Varric sported a jacket plated in metal, though he didn't bother to do up the buttons. Kiaran did not feel much stronger than paper in the face of flame.

"You are nervous." Cassandra did not look at Kiaran when she spoke. Her eyes scanned the fortress ahead of them. "Don't be."

"I..." Kiaran tried to look comfortable as she crossed her arms. "Finery and templars are both things I'm very bad with." The clothes Josephine folded away for her for this day were the finest she'd seen in years: dark navy wool edged in plum velvet, fine stitching in white and lilac. The bodice was snug, but not boned, thankfully - otherwise if this turned sour she'd be fighting in a shift. Kiaran had to remind herself to stand straight, to watch where she stepped, lest the Orlesians see her boots bearing scars from the scuffle in the mines. Those, she loved: a solid leather with steel rivets to hold the laces and a tough sole double-stitched at the heel and toe.

At least Aedhin also sported a richer outfit, similar in colour and tone to hers, but engraved obsidian plates lined the arms of his jacket and beneath the finely sewn and buckled black leather doublet, she knew he wore a shirt of steel mail. And _his_ boots shone with Inquisition plates at the shins.

Cassandra barked out a laugh. "If it consoles you, I also disagreed about withholding an armoured coat."

"So I _should_ be worried?" Kiaran countered. If the Seeker wanted her in battle clothes, then...

"I simply disagree with the idea that a woman should not want to be seen as dangerous." This time, Cassandra looked down at her with the tiniest tug of a satisfied smirk. Kiaran looked back with a tight-lipped expression, not sure if she should smile back, disagree, or both.

"...sometimes it works to my advantage," she eventually said, glancing away as Aedhin and Abernache came back over the hill path. "Look, they're finally back."

Her distant cousin also had a temper about Ferelden, it seemed. To his credit, Ser Barris did not react. Kiaran wondered how Cullen knew him. There had never been a Barris in Kirkwall.

"How...how dare you!" Lord Abernache sniffed behind his mask. "The second son of a minor Ferelden house...dare to address me so!"

Aedhin extended his hand to Ser Barris, cocky grin in place. "It's good to meet you, Ser Barris. I'm the second son of Bann Trevelyan."

Kiaran couldn't help the undignified snort she made behind them, tried to pass it as a cough in her hand as the needle-glares of Templars and Orlesians both zeroed in on her. Blackwall grunted behind her and so did Cassandra. Varric made no effort to hide his laughter.

Aedhin turned and gestured toward her, as if he hadn't heard any of the reactions. "My younger sister, Kiaran."

Barris' bowed nod felt as hollow as her curtsy. She was glad she wasn't the only one that didn't want to be a part of this. As they crossed the gate into the fort's courtyard, an uncomfortable itch started at the back of her neck, the same wariness that settled in her near rifts, just like in Redcliffe. Lining the walls, the courtyard, surrounding the nobles almost too casually, were templars. Their Order robes were pressed and clean and the armour polished to a mirror-shine but no one wore any signifier of rank. The swords and maces at their sides were solid, well-made, but nothing appeared to have any special value. No badges, no blood-red jewels adorning hilts or even engravings on their pauldrons.

There should have been more than this out here. A knight-captain, or commander even?

When she glanced to Cassandra as Barris explained the flag ceremony to Aedhin, she also seemed to be searching for something in the crowd.

Kiaran wanted to flee to Solas' side, to be able to follow his lead if he saw something she didn't. Not quite the vibration of magic, but close to it, she could feel its whisper just at the edges of her focus. The apostate's eyes were on the fortress proper at the top of the hill.

"Ah, so this is a character call," Aedhin said, voice carrying across the courtyard. "I'll play the Lord Seeker's game, then. I have nothing to hide from him."

Everyone's eyes were on her brother.

The people. Andraste. The Templar Order. He raised the last one after a long, uncomfortable pause.

Some dissatisfied noises came from the edges.

"Andraste would never put herself above the people she so loved." Aedhin's tone was sharp. Silence followed him. He looked to Barris, with a cold intensity that immediately brought her back to her father admonishing a guard when they were little. Next to her, Cassandra gave a slow nod. Approval.

"If the Order has forgotten who they're meant to protect, let Andraste show them the way," Aedhin continued. He looked at Barris, whose face was tight, his eyes a mixture of emotion.

"Now, Ser Barris. If the Lord Seeker has no more games, let's get on with this."

Instead of up the hill, he led them to a structure further away in the courtyard. A small hall. Kiaran swallowed back as her throat tightened. The men and woman against the building thrummed with lyrium's silencing power, and she could almost feel the way they wanted to reach out, smother her, smother Solas with their touch.

The Lord Seeker was not present inside.

"Knight-Captain Denam?" Barris went to ask more, but Denam raised his hand from the other side of the table. There was a shift in the shadows above. Templars armed with bows stood on the balcony, faces hidden by hoods. Those standing in the corners of the room held still like statues.

Kiaran reminded herself the staff was a tug away. _And you don't need one to be dangerous_ , she thought, repeated it to herself over and over, _You never even really used one until you left for the Conclave._

The knight-captain mocked her brother, mocked _them_. Cassandra reached for her sword. Shouting echoed in the building, muffled, further in. Blackwall drew his. Varric tapped his fingers against Bianca.

Aedhin stuck out his arm. "Abernache, step back--"

"You've ruined everything," Denam began, folding his arms behind him in confidence. "Now the dissenters must be purged!"

There was a solid thunk as a heavy wooden arrow buried itself in the side of Abernache's skull; he crumpled forward without a sound. Aedhin jumped backward as Cassandra came forward with her shield out, deflected longbow arrows as a volley came down on the party. Chaos exploded in the room as Denam's knights clashed with Barris' recruits. The air lit up around them equal parts magic and lyrium.

The templar recruits behind them fell as both arrow and sword cut into them; Varric shot out a stream of bolts and the men in on the balcony tumbled to the floor.

Barris batted an arrow away from Kiaran with his sword before he charged on one of the armoured knights approaching them. She lit the attacking templar with flame, while her other hand snapped the staff from the belt on her back. When the bladed end hit the wooden floor, sparks flew, and lightning danced in an arc to a red-eyed templar with a bow in her hands. She shuddered in place, and was silenced by a steel bolt through her neck a moment later.

"Seeker!" Varric growled in warning as the templar by the far door rippled in red, and shards of pink crystal tore through the fabric on his shoulders, gleaming in blood that dripped purple-black.

"I see it, Varric!"

Steel rang on steel as Aedhin parried off a claymore with his daggers. But his footwork was faster and he slipped into the space between Denam and his shield. He stuck his left blade in the gap between chestplate and hip. Aedhin's armoured knuckles clanged against Denam's helmet as he threw him back with a tight uppercut. Without looking behind him, he spun the dagger in his hand and jabbed upward into the unarmoured stomach of the archer coming for his turned back. A strangled, inhuman sound burst from the templar's lips and he fell forward to the ground crying out as blood like oil poured from the wound

Another ran at Kiaran, hands shimmering.

The wood beneath her lit up in red and she held her breath through his agonized scream as the fire incinerated him through the metal, fused his skin hot and bubbling to his own armour and helm. The rune faded and the man fell writhing to the ground, still screaming, still alive.

She shut her eyes and drove the blade of the staff into his neck. He stilled, but the burning-pork smell of flesh and hair still filled the room, kept the horror alive.

The sound of fighting echoed from far away, rang closeby. The last of the red glowing templars crumpled under Cassandra's sword and one of the young recruits, spattered in blood, threw a broken table across the door leading out.

"The Knight-Captain still lives," Barris declared, kicking the other man over on his back.

"Keep it that way." Aedhin's voice wavered, that dangerous low tone, almost imperceptible growl. "Get him chained and to the Chargers. He'll answer to us back in Haven."

Varric's dark chuckle filled the breathless quiet. "You're handing him to Cassandra? Poor bastard's gonna wish you killed him."

Cassandra did not react to the bait but walked forward to Aedhin's side. Her eyes flashed with wordless anger but her posture radiated calm, confidence. As Kiaran clutched her staff close to her, heart racing so fast she felt dizzy, she wished she could look the same.

"These templars are using..."

"I saw it," Aedhin replied to her, and rolled out his shoulders. "Let's get to the bottom of this." He turned his hard gaze on Kiaran. The look made her shudder.

"I'm fine," she insisted, feeling anything but fine, "I've got your back." Kiaran gestured to her dress, where blood spattered the bottom hem. "Next time I get the cool jacket, okay?"

"I can't send you back." He looked at the small window near the entrance. The courtyard was an eruption of fire and fighting. "But stay out of the melee."

The door that led deeper into the fort had a wooden bar set against it, which Cassandra tossed aside as if it were hollow. Aedhin carefully pulled open the door back, glanced into the hall to see what awaited them. Only emptiness. He gestured Cassandra forward first, and crept behind her with a small vial of orange liquid between the fingers of his right hand. Adan's smoke bomb.

Kiaran and Solas were the last to enter the hall.

It was narrow and piled with equipment, stacks of crates missing labels and shelves full with dark metal containers.

"It reverberates in this place," Solas said, staring ahead as if he could see through the walls. "And the Veil is yet thinner further up." No one needed him to clarify what he meant by _it_. Kiaran knew enough of what happened to Knight-Commander Meredith to know the red lyrium was their greatest problem now. It's barely-there whisper tugged at her mind, like fingers at the back of her neck. She scratched at it absently as they moved through.

Aedhin held up his left hand as they paused on a corner. "Look at the bright side, friends." He wiggled his fingers, and the glow of his mark did not penetrate his gauntlets this time. "No rifts."

"An endless well of optimism, aren't you?" Cassandra turned down the hall and kicked down a barricade of barrels and crates. Rice and grain poured onto the floor. "Maker willing, there are more templars on our side than the Lord Seeker's now."

The hall led out into another field, where a handful of men and women in Templar armour held off a series of others warped red and glowing. They hunched forward when they ran and their battlecries came twisted and slurred. Red crystal jutted from their knuckles, fused their hands to their swords and they swung skillessly, hacking, slashing, and beating at those that tried to hold them back.

The lightning that rained down from Kiaran and Solas barely slowed them.

"Hey, Matchsticks!"

She almost didn't hear Varric from across the field but took off in a clumsy sprint toward him, leaving a small trail of fire in her wake. They ducked under a shower of red energy and shattered steel behind the shelter of a broken staircase.

Varric cracked a heavy fist on the joint of the crossbow to dislodge the jam. The steel bolt dropped to the ground, bent. "To the right!"

She looked over, a small gatehouse for the garrison with a broken window. The sill around the door was shiny on the bottom. Oil, for the chains?

"Light it up," he said, just the barest hint of mischief in his eyes.

Kiaran nodded. "Got it."

And then the dwarf was running, as fast as he could, calling their companions to follow. The distraction was enough time to set one runed circle of orange energy. 

The explosion swallowed the sound in the yard, not unlike her brother shutting a rift, and the fire consumed the gatehouse, the grass, and the scaffolding along the wall.

She felt the sweat drench her hairline as she stood in the cover of the broken stone stairs, held the staff close to her chest and muttered out a barrier to stay off the worst of it. She wasn't trapped in it this time.

This time, there was no one in a sickbed she had to defend.

"Kiaran!"

Cassandra held Aedhin back by the arm.

Kiaran poked her head out as the plume of black smoke haunted over them. Pieces of red templars littered the burning grass like broken toys. She hiked up the skirts of the dress and bolted after her brother's panicked call. Cassandra thanked her for her quick thinking. Kiaran pretended not to hear.

 _It will always happen_ , she realized as her jaw ached, teeth grinding together, eyes burning through air thick with smoke and soot and lyrium. She tried not to think of filthy Tevinter architecture reclaimed in blood and demons, to think instead of stilling her shaking hands and the urge to puke in the corner. And yet it persisted. A burning inferno of magic, allies falling at their sides screaming in lyrium-madness, Solas' cold and cruel winter storm shattering torsos from limbs. Daggers and swords piercing and hacking through corrupted flesh, bruise-coloured blood spattering all of them. The race up the stairs to the fort's great hall stretched endless above them.

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones, and they shall find no rest in this world, or beyond._

It always happened this way. For her, the razing of Kirkwall was just the start.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pale skin, a glimmer of pale hair in the low torchlight. A hat too big. Dark circles, like he hadn't slept in weeks. Young. His sister's age. Maybe younger.
> 
> "I know you, don't I?" Aedhin asked, letting out the breath he didn't realize he was still holding. "We've met before?"

The fight in the courtyard felt like hours ago.

Left, right. Forward, back. It was all the same, hazy paths circling around each other, black-blue punctuated by the occasional veilfire torch. Normally, the fire felt like nothing, but Aedhin flinched with the sensation of burning when he reached for it experimentally.

He hadn't felt this awful since they climbed the mountain to the Breach.

The last few moments on the steps played again and again in his mind. The Lord Seeker, waiting at the top. Aedhin sticking his hand out, bidding his sister hang back, waiting for Blackwall to grab her before he approached the large wooden doors where Lucius stood with his back turned.

Cassandra warned him seconds too late.

The door rippled like water, the Lord Seeker pulled him inside.

And the silence.

It weighed on him like a wet wool blanket, uncomfortable and suffocating and made his skin itch and crawl. The veilfire torches were hot and everything else was cold, a wet cold, like the pelting sleet on the beaches of the Storm Coast, that bone-deep shuddering that took hours to shake off.

He called out, one name at a time. No answer. He called for Solas last, surely he knew how to find him here?

Nothing.

Aedhin willed the mark open in his hand, but even the familiar crackling and sparkling drowned in the fog around him.

Was he in the Fade?

Was he dead?

And then ahead of him, orange light, instead of blue. A good sign. Until he got closer and the burning bodies from the Temple lined the path ahead, faces contorted in agony. The mark pulsed at the reminiscence and Aedhin felt himself back there again, aching and weary, eyelids heavy and footfalls swaying as he reached up to close the horror above them,

 

_Please, help me!_

_An intruder. Kill him._

_This can't be it. I don't want to die like this._

 

He pushed back the memory, the pulsing pain in his veins, his skin, and thought of everything since: stabilizing the Crossroads, finding Kiaran, reconnecting with Josephine in the night over too many bottles, learning about a young Cassandra rising as the Right Hand of the Divine.

He finally reached the orange torches, and his advisors back in Haven stood around a war table. Aedhin stilled in his steps, reached for his daggers and held them carefully in front of him. Red drops of blood stained the markers on the map.

Josephine was the first to catch his eyes. Her hollow smile stretched too far across her face.

Leliana stepped out from the shade, grinning. "Is this shape useful? Will it let me know you?"

Aedhin stepped back.

"Everything tells me about you," she hummed, and twirled a small knife in her fingers as she circled around Cullen, standing still and hollow with his hands clasped behind him. "Watch."

The mark's iridescent glow grounded him, kept him from springing forward. "If you wanted me to shriek in terror, demon, you're going to have to work a little harder." He sounded more confident, more lording than he felt. He swallowed back bile as she grinned and pulled the knife slowly across Cullen's throat. The blood sputtered and spewed but Cullen collapsed forward with no expression, no more alive than a marionette.

"Now he matches your sister."

Aedhin's grip on his weapons tightened. "She's doing just fine, actually."

"Hmph. Is she?" Leliana's eyebrows lifted as she stepped again into shadow. Aedhin's gaze slid over slowly as Josephine approached with a dagger in hand.

"Being you, it'll be so much more fun." Her light, airy voice, tinged with an iron coldness, the barest notes of magic that sang from the Fade. "It'll be far more engaging than being the Lord Seeker. Think of what we could _do_ , Aedhin, together."

"Not the situation I wanted to hear _that_ from her," Aedhin muttered, tried to smirk, hoped the humour would ease off the nauseated tremor in his shoulders. She moved behind him; he turned and she was gone. Aedhin stumbled back, glancing wildly for where she hid, any glint of gold satin in the darkness.

Her voice filled the air around him.

"Do you not see what the Inquisition could be?"

Her party laugh echoed, a twinge of madness beneath its usual gaiety. The hairs of his neck rose. The mark ached, knuckles, wrist, and elbow burning like muscles pulled too far.

"And then when the Elder One kills you, I'll _be_ you, and everything will be absolutely perfect. And even if she resists you...she won't be able to stop you from taking what you desire."

The threat on Josephine was a distraction, to rile him up, to get him to drop his defense. Aedhin took a breath. "What is the Elder One?"

A flirting giggle, trained for the Orlesian court, a delightful sound that once distracted his mother from a blood and brandy stain on a prized rug. Still, no sign of her.

"He is between," she whispered, a secret, lips on his ear and Aedhin lashed at thin air. "And you'll serve him when he is not." In front of him now, demure, inviting. Aedhin raised a dagger but his hand quivered. He couldn't.

"Keep talking," he managed.

Not-Josephine pursed her lips like she was keeping a secret. "You'll have to die in the right way, of course. Mm...now would be ideal." She took a hold of his hand and the dagger fell harmlessly to the grass, tugged him away with her down the path.

He couldn't breathe. Tried, felt the air catch in his mouth, soundless, struggling--

As as quick as she pulled him away, she was gone, and Cullen stood with a gaping wound on his neck and Aedhin's dagger in hand.

"I am Envy," he said, as simply as the Commander explained a war tactic. "And I will have you. Tell me, Herald, what do you think?" An image of Aedhin shimmered in front of Cullen, fell to the ground with a fatal moan as Cullen drove the blade in an arc upward from the hip. Kidney, fatal blow, a manouevre that saved Aedhin's life countless times.

He turned and Cullen knocked candles onto the bleeding war table map, setting it alight. "What do you feel? What do you know, in your mind? Tell me," he continued, like he did when they drank and Aedhin confessed to boyish brawls and life on the road between Ostwick and Starkhaven. A foaming mug of weak beer in Haven. Disarmed, distracting, a few moments of peace between piling reports and measured appearances.

Aedhin watched another image of himself fall forward to his knees, wounded, and this time, the blade in his own hand dripped with blood.

The voice no longer belonged to Cullen. It's foreign rasp was breathy, seductive, as it crooned, "Tell me what you see."

"Show me your real face and I'll make the vision clear," Aedhin spat, standing straight, looking for its origin. Quiet followed, but an archway of stone lit up over torches a short distance away.

He needed to get out. He needed to get back.

Through the doorway played another warped memory, one that tangled and tormented him in his nightmares every single night before that first trip south to the Hinterlands. Cassandra and five other soldiers pressed on him as he knelt in chains, while she tried to cut the truth from him.

 

_"How can you deny it?"_

_"I can't deny what I didn't do, I was sent here by my father--"_

_"Lies!"_

 

Her sword came down. Another cosmetic slash, painful, never mortal. The fury, the viciousness, he understood the sound of it now as her grief, fear, and the tinges of self-blame. This nightmare hadn't played in ages, not since their exhausting journey to Val Royeaux, when she stayed up through the night to watch him, watch for assassins.

"That's not her," he said. He didn't say it to convince the demon.

Aedhin stepped around the scene, but they took no notice of him.

Cassandra continued her assault, and Aedhin forced himself to turn, to continue on.

The next room was not a memory. Inquisition soldiers and a general stood around him as he leaned over a map. They talked about victory, Aedhin declared his approval of the Inquisition finally conquering along the path to match his vision. There was no sign of Cullen, Leliana, anyone he recognized in the room. He realized, looking through the large windows glowing behind his other self, this was not Haven. The Inquisition banner flowed from castle towers far away. Smoke rose from a fire burning inside it.

Aedhin recognized this. He'd stood in this room before, with his older sister, marvelling at the open fields and recanting all she knew about Andraste's journeys and her blessings, here in this very province. Not hours after she pointed out all the landmarks she knew from her studies, a messenger came with their uncle and the head of their escort. It was time to begin the trip home to Ostwick, get back as fast as possible. _Your mother's given you two new siblings_ , he called, as Etain excitedly dragged her unimpressed, then-fifteen younger brother down the stairs and out to the carriage. _They'll be named under the Maker in three days. Your trunks will follow you._

"I'll not be pursuing Ostwick or Markham!" Aedhin yelled out to the demon.

" _I_ will," it purred back from the ceiling. "I'll get everything you ever wanted, and more. It won't take _that_ much work to be the first son, not the second. And when they try to stop me, I'll raise my voice. Just like you."

The image in front of him burst into fire, white and hot, and then it was gone, threatening laughter echoing in its wake.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself, and moved through the next doorway. At least the path was linear, no choices to confuse him, second guess which direction to go.

The next room was brilliant white tiles and gleaming gold crown moulding, the very picture of Orlesian opulence. At first, there was no one, but the echo of panic and shrieking vibrated through the walls, shook the chandeliers.

 

_"You're not my brother!"_

_"I always have been. The templars will help you remember."_

_A struggle, screaming. Begging. "Please don't! Aedhin!"_

 

Then silence. Still, the room was empty.

"You can't deceive her, and you won't catch her either!" His voice tore desperate from his throat. This time, it was actually him, speaking his own words, shaking, fingers cold, looking for the demon. There had to be a way to find it, strike it down.

Suddenly Kiaran stood in the corner, dressed in white, hair perfectly tamed in strings of pearls. Aedhin's breath caught; it wasn't a jewel on her forehead but the Sunburst symbol of the Chantry. Her face was placid and she looked to Not-Aedhin with an emptiness, a blank resignation.

There was no door out of this room.

 _"He'll take care of you,"_ the demon echoing Aedhin's voice assured her, drawing his fingers fondly across her cheek. _"Now that you have someone to help you listen."_

This image stretched for what felt like hours.

"She'll tell you everything now," the demon said, looking back at him with his own face, though everyone looked and passed right through Aedhin. A wedding, a noble court lit in masks, candles, fragrant flowers and hidden knives.

Aedhin closed his eyes. He had to get out, couldn't let this happen, none of it, especially not to her --

"Of course, you'd be protective at first," it said, "You'll need to get close to the Empress. The Duke won't be enough, but you'll try. And no one will ever suspect the demon in the tranquil mage, once it's done, because she'll be so calm. So ladylike. So easy to sell, consume."

How did it know of his plans to move in Orlais? All he did was pin the map on the table. And what of his sister...

The wedding feast trailed away to a servants' door to the kitchen. Aedhin followed it, anything to get away from this projection of his sister, smiling like she was painted in the arms of a man he didn't recognize.

The next room blessed him in that it was profoundly devoid of anything living. Veilfire spewed from the statues in perfectly timed patterns. Aedhin watched and counted, the length of pause, guessed the space under the plumes he might be able to roll under if he didn't miss his shot.

Healed, but not forgotten, he almost felt his ribs ache at the thought.

As he took off running toward it, the timing of the flames suddenly changed, faster, twirling toward him. He ducked into the roll anyway to guard his face as the fire danced off his armour and coat.

Maker, how the Veilfire _burned_.

He felt every seam where the metal bound to leather, the uncomfortable stickiness of sweat that stuck his undershirt to the mail, and that to the thick leather doublet made for this assault. And how he felt the spot on his neck where the hair singed clean.

And then, in the shelter of a corner, he laughed, a rueful, desperate sound. He couldn't stop imagining if it had been an eyebrow. Try leading the Inquisition with half an expression. Cassandra would be mortified.

Thinking of her unable to process the humour of that particular mutilation warmed him in a way he didn't expect, and he placed his hand over the Inquisition emblem stitched into his chest. Get out first. Kill the demon later. Preferably with the Seeker's holy rage burning right next to him, like always. The comfort of her gleaming silverite armour, the heavy reassurance of her blade and shield in hand, standing over the corpse with grim effortlessness as the waning afternoon sun illuminated her in a halo of purity and retribution.

"Andraste, guide me back," he whispered, and shouldered his dagger in its sheathe.

"You pretended to prize the people," the demon taunted, somewhere up above in the vaulted black ceilings. "They'll never guess how you'll lead them all to burn to get what you want!"

He escaped the next swirl of flames without contact.

 

_"Who would stand up to him? Who wants to end up a sacrifice?"_

_"Who cares? The whole world falls for us. Why let it go?"_

_"The Champion of Kirkwall couldn't even stand up to a man like that."_

_"Heard he sold a girl off to there, for the new Viscount. That's how he started in the Marches..."_

 

Voices, some he recognized, some new. Gossiping. "His" reign of terror. Unfolding like a bad dream, shapes like ghosts cheering, some crying. The dissenters sobbed behind bars with their wrists in shackles. Aedhin headed for the door to his left. When it didn't budge he immediately dropped to one knee and pulled a pick from his belt. _I have to get out._

And then, a new voice.

"You're hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?" A boy's voice, younger.

The demon lashed out. "What are you? _Get out!_ This is my place now!"

Aedhin tried to tune it out. This room was on fire in the corner and next to the door was a statue, grotesque and slimy. A small inscription was carved into the plate at its base:

Envy's Dogma.

He could read the words but they meant nothing, all he understood was _demon_ and _get out before it gets you, too_.

The room was a dead end, and so Aedhin ventured back out into the veilfire hall. Another door faced him, not twenty strides away. He ran for it. Inside, an enormous bed, draped in silk and thick quilts and furs, luxurious. Unmade. The word lascivious came to mind. Another ghost of an image, faceless partners lured in beneath him, bodies bruised and ragged and tiny under violence disguised as seduction.

Aedhin stumbled back with his hand over his mouth to hide the sound of his gasp.

The door shut behind him. The latch made an audible clunk as it locked into place. He got back to it too late.

"No!" He banged his fist on the door, shoved with all his weight. Nothing. A void space in his chest, the simmering guilt as it sunk into him while he looked back around the room, at the evidence, of his face stealing hearts, breaking trust, killing, violent, eager, because he could.

This was the face of madness, wasn't it?

"Wait." The boy's voice was patient, pleading. "Please wait."

Aedhin turned back.

"Envy is hurting you," the boy insisted, standing in front of the locked doorway. Pale skin, a glimmer of straw-coloured hair in the low torchlight. A hat too big. Dark circles, like he hadn't slept in weeks. Young. His sister's age. Maybe younger.

"Envy hurts," he repeated, standing still, "Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel, but not take." He paused. "I want to help. Y-you, not Envy."

He could feel the fear, the panic, jittering through him, _You should run_ , but held his ground as the boy shifted, hanging now from the ceiling. Aedhin should expect this by now, he had seen too many strange things, this should stop surprising him, he fell out of the fucking Fade, by Andraste. Why did anything shock him? He held his ground.

"I know you, don't I?" Aedhin asked, letting out the breath he didn't realize he was still holding. "We've met before?"

"Not us, but I've been watching since she got out," the boy explains, "I'm Cole. We're inside...you're inside...I'm inside _you_. This is yours, you're always here."

"No more riddles," Aedhin muttered.

"It's not a riddle," the boy, Cole, insisted, "Hearing is easy but it's hard to be a part of what you're hearing. I'm here, hearing, here to help. I hope."

Aedhin put up a hand, felt the weary desperation tug at his mind, wished he could appreciate the wordplay. "Please."

Cole inclined his head. "Well, Envy is hurting you."

"So we've established." Unbidden bitterness, the sound of his voice a week ago in Haven, dripped in his words.

Cole continued, "And then I was...here in your hearing." He looked around the room. "It's not usually like this."

"This doesn't make sense." _Be calm, trust your instincts, you'll never make it out if you crack now_ \--

"Well, it never really does," Cole agreed with a chuckle, disappearing. Now he sat on the edge of the bed. The door to the room swung open, inviting.

"Everyone was watching --me too." Cole picked at the loose threads of the duvet. "They were impressed, but not as much as the Lord Seeker--"

"You mean the Envy demon that wants to use my face to...to..." Aedhin trailed off, unable to bring himself to say it.

"Yes. It twisted everyone. Forcing, furious, forgetting. They're red inside now. Red is not good. Red hurts." Cole looked up from beneath the brim of his hat. Aedhin felt those light eyes stare right through him. "You're frozen, but you're not forced. I reached out, then in, then here. To _help._ "

The point was the same. "So, Cole, how do I get out?"

Cole scratched his chin. "It's...your head. I was hoping you'd know."

The hope, it glimmered there for just a moment, and then was gone. "I...see."

"Don't you know Envy?"

No more memories came through the door. Aedhin sunk into the chair by the hearth, suddenly more worn than he'd ever been in his whole life. He fought down a sob of despair. "No, I don't--"

"Envy stretches to know you. All the people, places, scenes. Like a book. You have to keep telling, add more. You know books?"

Aedhin looked up. This spirit might be benevolent after all. "Yes..."

"So if you keep going, Envy will run out of story. One person is hard. Too many is harder. You need to finish the story. Envy breaks when the story stops, you get out, and rewrite it."

"A test of endurance," Aedhin concluded. Before the scene in this room, he might have tucked away a stamina joke for later. Now, he felt disgusting, putrid, at the thought. And if this was his mind...

"If it helps," Cole admitted, "Isn't it better than waiting to lose your face so Envy can find it?"

"Yes," came the sigh of defeat, and he got back to his feet. It was then he noticed blood running down the walls and pooling on the carpet.

Cole took off at a jaunty sprint. "Come on, I'll help!"

The path through fire felt like a stumble through a dream. Incomplete thoughts, half-movements as Cole encouraged him to think louder, have _ideas_ about _moving_ and _water_. The way looked impassable, spitting veilfire faster and faster.

"You needn't be a ship," Cole encouraged, "Envy has hurt you, disturbed you. Think of silt in the river, passing through your fingers."

Aedhin thought of his uncle's house in Markham, the pretty little creek beyond the garden where he used to kidnap frogs to impress his younger siblings while Etain blanched in the gazebo.

The fire stopped. They moved on.

Envy cursed at him, lilted and teased and promised he'd win. "It's futile," he called, punctuated with manic cackles, "I already know you. I own you!" Sometimes, the mockery came in Rodhain's booming baritone and Aedhin was sure he pinched a nerve with how his whole body tightened. _You will bring blood, ruin, and fear_ , it drawled in an echo around them, his brother's voice, ever condescending, _Just like your predecessor! The Herald of Andraste, harbinger of death! Is mother proud now?_

Cole looked back at him, gave him an encouraging wave. Aedhin did not stop in the illusion of Cassandra sneering over his corpse, did not give weight to the shattering pang in his chest as she muttered,

"I should have killed him sooner."

"You don't have to do any of this," Cole's cheerful quip came over the demon, "This is not the real thing, after all." The demon hissed around them.

Aedhin nodded grimly. He kept on. Past the condemnation of Mother Giselle, past the pyre on which Roderick was burned alive.

He did not ignore Cullen's scathing resistance to the guards in his cell further down, but he also did not engage.

"Men like this always come about." Cullen's eyes were narrow, dangerous, haunted. "Eventually, someone _champions_ over them and everyone sees the truth. I'll take what he gives me, I deserve no less for what I let him do." The choice of words wasn't lost on him. He thought of his sister, empty, possessed.

Cole beckoned him.

Aedhin continued running. His lungs burned. His mind burned. Everything, burning.

Josephine crumpled and hurt behind bars brought him to a stop. He lingered, knelt before her with his fingers gripping the iron that caged her. She looked up but did not see him. In her eyes despair, betrayal, pain.

"Joephine--" He reached for her.

Envy laughed.

"She tastes better drowning in tears," he assured Aedhin, "Wait until you actually _rip her apart._ "

That cursed bedroom flashed behind them.

Aedhin grit his teeth. "I...would never--"

Cole pulled him. Aedhin shoved him back and the mark roared to life, filling the room with light.

"Dead or alive, even a biting remark at her, at my sister, and I'll _cross the fucking Veil myself_ to tear your sorry blighted hide to pieces!" As he screamed, the illusion around him shook. It tumbled into a barren, empty prison cell with a single candle on the floor.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't catch his breath. Aedhin gripped at the collar of his coat, choking on air.

"This isn't your darkness, it doesn't need to be real," Cole was near him again, gently tugging, "Go up, to where you're you, more you than Envy."

"I can't project what isn't there." Envy hummed nonchalantly from above, from all around. "I'm learning you, _not making you._ "

Aedhin looked to Cole, fighting the quake in his knees, and sucked in a breath around a hoarse, "Show me how."

Cole led him by the hand like a child, passed a veilfire torch to him when they passed empty braziers. He stopped speaking back to Envy's taunts, lit the braziers, followed in numbness with one foot in front of the other as they unearthed the keys to get out of the dungeon.

"This is the right way," Cole affirmed.

Aedhin did not believe him, but did not tell him so, either.

"Think of the river," Cole reminded him as they wandered through the darkness of a forest, "You are moving. You do not need to settle here. He can't make you settle when you are disturbed." Cole ducked into the cover of shadow and led him along the path up broken stone stairs as Envy screamed all around them.

Cole's voice soothed over it like a break in a mad fever. "He can't make you do anything, not anymore. You'll go back to her, and then we'll fight together."

"Back to who? Who shall I twist first?" Shades lunged at them with Envy's resounding voice from the shadows.

Cole looked to the sky. "You don't have to answer, he knows."

Aedhin said nothing.

The climb up the broken stone turned into the climb up Therinfal Redoubt.

"You're almost there," Cole cheered, "Keep going!"

Voices, Orlesian, Marcher, Ferelden, mixed and mottled in chaos around them. Aedhin put his gaze to the top of the long staircase instead. Legs burning, lungs burning.

The Fade in the sky. Burning.

"Can you see it?"

The wooden doors leading to the mess hall. Aedhin tripped on the last stair, wheezed as he came to the top. Almost--!

The vision of himself that plagued him through this journey advanced from behind, prowled the stairs like a panther. Cole was gone.

"It's unfair, it took you from me, kept you whole!" it screamed, grabbed Aedhin by the collar and shoved him up against the door. "You were supposed to be mine! Everything was!" It shoved Aedhin again, brought up its other hand, glowing and dripping in malice and magic. "That's fine, we'll start over, more pain --the rape was the worst, wasn't it? Maybe instead of killing _you_ , you'll kill the Seeker!"

Black spots in his eyes. Terror. Aedhin managed a weak, "No..." through the grip against his throat.

Cole stood on the ledge. "Envy is scared of you," he said, rocking side to side with his hands behind his back.

The demon turned, dropped Aedhin. "I told you to get out!"

One chance. Aedhin curled his fist and punched forward with all his strength. The demon stumbled back.

The illusion shattered.

"Aedhin!" Cassandra's voice woke him up.

His companions behind him. The sun high in the sky, marred by rainclouds moving in. Ahead of him, a twisted, grey thing, almost human in shape, crawling backward and bent away from them. It screeched. The stone near them fractured, and then the monster burst into a dark mist and hid behind a barrier at the back of the hall.

"The Lord Seeker--"

His mind was a cloud of furtive burning, trying to understand. His body was untouched. Aedhin reached back, pulled _both_ daggers from their sheathes on his shoulders. Both. He was back. Andraste's mercy, he was back.

"No. An imposter." Both blades came up. The mark rippled a warning, a sparkling reminder of his anger threatening to burst from under his words.

"Aedhin?" His sister's quiet voice beneath the din. He did not answer her, but exhaled, eyes trained on the bubbling shield, and he inclined his chin only a little to acknowledge that he heard her concern. He was back, the demon didn't win --now to keep it that way. 

Soldiers filled the mess hall, templars fighting against their twisted companions. Barris had gone ashen.

"Then, this...the Lord Seeker..."

"Not here," Aedhin confirmed.

"They gave us the new lyrium, used it themselves so we wouldn't..."

Aedhin stuck out his blade, stopping half an inch from Barris' exposed throat. "Blame yourselves later. Help us end this here." Funny, how his throat felt fine but his voice sounded so tired. Aedhin pulled his arm back in.

Barris gave a slow nod, expression hollow. "Yes, right..." He stepped away, started calling out orders. A young woman in the front of the hall approached him first with an empty, level voice. She explained what they knew, where everyone had gone. She was missing her right eye. A burn peeked out from the bandages.

Barris turned back to Aedhin. "The superiors have turned but the veteran lieutenants might still be alright. We'll need them, and as much untouched lyrium as we can salvage." He nodded to the barrier at the end of the hall. "And then, I'll hand you the monster myself."

"Cassandra."

Ever ready at his side, she stepped forward with bloodied sword and shield in hand. "You have an idea?"

"Our group's too big." He forced himself to blink, to break his stare. "This hall has exits on both sides."

"You want to split up?!"

"You, Solas, Varric. Take the right." The worst of the twisted templars attacked from that direction on the ground. He hoped he was right, that was where the lyrium was stored.

"I agree," Solas cut in, before Cassandra could argue. "The lyrium here is packed too tightly on itself. Kiaran and I should not be near each other upon its discovery."

Kiaran sighed behind them. "It's already..." A sigh of defeat. "Solas is right."

Cassandra's nostrils flared slightly - Aedhin had to bite his tongue to repress the smile, she hated to lose control of the field for even a moment, didn't she? But the exhausted laugh broke out from him as she turned to his sister with a warning look.

"Do not set the Herald aflame with your wild ideas," she said, and with a toss of her head, set off to the door on the far right wall.

The sound of Red Templars filled the space around the fort hall, down at the bottom of the stairs.

"If I set Aedhin on fire it's his own fault." Kiaran, both hands gripping the staff, walked past him and Blackwall toward the door barred opposite to them. Her knuckles were white.

"Ah, I won't tell a soul, my lady." The warden clapped a heavy hand on Aedhin's shoulder. "Try not to jump into any pits this round, ay?"

Aedhin chanced one look back as Barris began calling orders to barricade the doors and windows. Cassandra and the others slipped through the door with Varric at the lead.

"Without her to come in after me?" This time, the smile wasn't empty, and held its own against his weariness. "Not a damn chance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's obviously never rolled a nat1 on anything after splitting the party.
> 
> Rating went up with this chapter, not sure if mentions of implications of sexual violence are in the same category as describing the actual thing so we're going to play it safe.
> 
> Unlike our Herald.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wondered if his skin also felt like a thousand biting ants crawling upon it.

Once, when they were little, Aedhin and his best friend took them outside the city walls to see the ocean up close. It was two hours away on horseback. Donovon asked Jerran a hundred questions about bows and hunting and Jerran let him take the reins of the horse for half the journey.

Kiaran sat with Aedhin as he retold his last journey north to Wycome with his friends. She didn't remember anything of the story but with the family daggers shining on his hips, she felt safe as Ostwick grew smaller and smaller.

The adventure was cut short when the twins fell into a bush of yellow rashvine. They were eight and their little hands and faces swelled with itching welts and scaly, inflamed patches where their skin was dry.

Red lyrium felt a hundred times worse than yellow rashvine.

She cast aside her gloves long ago, somewhere down in the lower courtyard. Magic flowed better without armour or fabric in the way, and though Vivienne had warned her about powering too much through her fingers after such an injury, Kiaran couldn't help it.

Now she wished she had.

Her fingernails were growing back sharp and brittle and between battles she picked at any exposed skin - her wrists, her knuckles, her collarbone, the last scabs on her throat.

She swallowed back a frustrated whine as the itch ripped across her whole body. Nothing showed except where she scratched at it herself, and all around them were corpses broken open with guts crystallized in lyrium. She left the dress cloak somewhere above, cast it off when its subtle rub sent a maddening sensation of crawling bugs down the back of her neck.

Now the relentless irritation tickled and burned at her hairline, her scalp, and as she brought her hand back down from behind her ear her fingertips were pink with blood.

Kiaran closed both hands around the staff.

Blackwall looked back at her, and grabbed her brother by the shoulder. "We should pause--"

"No!" It came out like a beg. Her control was slipping. "The more we stop the louder it...it..." She couldn't form the words. Her fingers tingled, both hot and numb at the tips. "Hurry up." If Adan's potions made her murky, this fired up her brain faster and faster, hotter and hotter, itching and burning and so overstimulated that she couldn't focus on spells, could barely summon the mana in her hands or through the staff.

Aedhin's eyes met hers, bright emerald. It reminded her of their mother, always worried, somehow always knowing what happened, what needed to be said. Their mother's light eyes were always the envy of the room, no matter where they were. Everyone always noticed them, paid attention when she spoke.

"We're almost done," Aedhin assured her. She paid attention to him.

He was right.

The last of the fighting on the walls came to a close, and as Aedhin worked the lock on the Lord Seeker's quarters she held the staff close to her chest and tried not to let the thrumming anger of the corrupted mineral drown her own voice in her head.

The warden's armoured hand came to rest on her shoulder. He gave it a squeeze, almost painful. Kiaran gave in and leaned against him. His metal armour cooled her through the fabric of her dress.

Aedhin glanced inside the doorway once the lock gave. They all knew the choking noise he made to keep down the contents of his stomach.

"Keep Kiaran outside."

This time, she didn't argue. She could smell the iron-copper waft of old blood coming out of the room, and pressed her forehead to her staff with her eyes squeezed shut. When Aedhin came out, he tucked a wad of papers into his coat.

The journey back to the mess hall was sombre. She wished it wasn't, hoped something would come out from broken boxes and doorways. The sound of clashing steel was louder than the itch.

Templar horrors tore the Great Hall apart.

Varric fired from a nook in the corner, backed in against the stone, face grim, concentrated, as he loaded one bolt after another. Cassandra and Barris guarded a large chest with a lock on the front of it. Solas fade-stepped almost too late out of a charged swipe that ripped a templar man through the middle.

The three of them split up; Blackwall to the front of the melee and Aedhin in a running climb to the second story balcony.

Fire worked the best but lightning came easier. Growing up on the coast, the storms were wild, devastating on the shoreline. Kiaran pictured one such storm, where a bolt of lightning cracked upon the Kirkwall harbour and ate the docks in bright red flame. Her hands thundered and her staff illuminated bright, brilliant purple. The hulking, twisted monster ahead of her vibrated in place. It turned.

It's roar echoed through her, left her unsettled from her stomach through her chest, and it approached her with heavy, lurching steps. It lumbered closer, hissing, and its hands, jutting spikes of bloody crystal from the knuckles, reached for her.

She thought of the harbour fire.

Her hands grew hot and the staff glowed red. An orange circle lit beneath the monster.

Its hand opened wide as if to push her away.

The circle disappeared. Her hands went cold. In her ears, colossal silence.

Under its glow, she felt the magic in her die. Panic burst in its place. She stumbled backward, tried again, but neither staff nor palm could summon her defense.

The sound the horror made might have been a laugh. It might have been a shriek.

Her shoulders bumped up against a stack of barrels, heavy, unmoving.

Everything itched. She wished she could step out from her skin. She wanted to cry, scream, anything. Aedhin was tangled between two lyrium-mad swordsmen above.

The next moment crawled. She was cornered and the horror wound back to strike. The magic was dead. Obsession burned in what was left of the templar's eyes. Was this what the Knight-Commander looked like before the Maker wrought her in stone?

Kiaran thrust the blade of the staff through its chest with shaking arms.

The horror was bulldozed suddenly by a flash of silver-white and Cassandra's bloody shield. With a flick of her wrist and pull of her sword, its head splattered from its shoulders to the floor in front of Kiaran.

"You are unhurt?" Cassandra looked her over. Her hairline on the left was caked with dried blood.

 _Everything hurts_ , Kiaran wanted to say. "I'll manage," she said instead.

Cassandra nodded and pointed her sword a little way down the hall. "Try to attack from there. Their quelling will not reach you from that distance. I will keep them busy." She paused, and with a suggestive raise of her brow, gave a fierce smile. "Mind your aim."

The last of them were finally killed off, somehow. Kiaran didn't know how much she actually contributed but her feet felt leaden as she made her way across the hall again to her brother. Solas fell into step near her. The front of his clothes were soaked almost black with the blood of corrupted templars. The look he gave her was withering, weary, and she nodded. _Me too_. Two apostates against a fortress of templars. She wondered if his skin also felt like a thousand biting ants crawling upon it.

Clouds obscured the sun overhead. She hoped for snow instead of rain.

Ser Barris lined the remaining templar veterans near the forcefield, called out orders for support to follow along the hallway walls.

Aedhin twirled his dagger back and forth in his hand as a bright white array lit under the templars. He watched without flinching as the barrier exploded, and stepped forward with Blackwall and Cassandra to either side of him.

"The veil is thinnest here," Solas announced, as they crossed through the eerily calm threshold out to the upper courtyard. "More demons may yet press here."

"They won't." Aedhin's confidence drew all of their stares. He rarely disagreed with anyone in the group, and never with Solas.

"How can you be so sure?" Cassandra raised both sword and shield again.

"He wants me for himself." The mark on his left gave out a single spark. "He won't let through anything strong enough to take me from him."

The battle was a run in circles with lesser shades as spikes of pure energy from the Fade burst through the Veil around them. Aedhin's pursuit was endless, tireless. Whether exhaustion or wear from the red lyrium, the fighting simplified in Kiaran's eyes. Cast. Slash. Run.

It ended with an explosion that knocked all of them back except for Cassandra, who anchored herself with her sword stuck into the garden dirt.

Kiaran stayed on her knees, head bowed, breaths heavy and desperate, eyes shut. Her hands ached, clamped almost in pain around the wooden shaft of her weapon and the tip of the blade was broken off at the bottom. Her heart thudded in erratic patterns, and though the fight was done, she couldn't get it to stop. She hoped they'd leave soon, leave quickly, back to the Inquisition tents surrounded by soldiers and the Bull's Chargers.

A soft padding on the ground next to her. She looked up and Aedhin was on one knee in front of her, blades sheathed again on his back. For once, he didn't say anything, but gently opened both arms to her.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Aedhin nodded slowly. "Are you?"

She didn't feel like lying this time, and the staff fell with a clatter against the stone. Aedhin swept her up with one motion back onto her feet, comfortingly warm, familiar, and missed. Even though they were both covered in blood, ash, and ichor, she closed her eyes and turned her face into the shield of his shoulder. One breath, two, three. In that third breath she felt better than she had in months.

"You will be," he promised, setting her back with both hands holding her steady by the shoulders.

She was burnt out, they all were. She felt like she should be crying, but didn't have the energy to summon the tears. There was something new, a mix of fear and relief and uncertainty in her brother's eyes that she'd never seen before. She opened her mouth to ask what worried him, but Barris' voice called out from the entrance to the hall.

Aedhin reluctantly dropped his hold on her, one hand holding back for just a moment as he stepped past her and back toward the fort.

It was a few minutes before she could pick up her things and follow. Some heated words came back and forth between Barris and Cassandra. Kiaran couldn't be bothered to catch about what, everything was done, the Inquisition won, what else had to be discussed?

Aedhin's voice, commanding and resolute, silenced them all.

"The Order joins the Inquisition as its allies," he declared, walking up between them with confidence in his gait. "Conditional upon your performance and support. I've no intention of disbanding the Templars on the whole right now."

Cassandra's eyes went wide. Solas did not school his angry frown before Kiaran caught it. Her own mood darkened. She didn't hear the rest, but slung the staff through the belt across her back. He might be her brother, but he was also Trevelyan: he would always side with the Chantry's approach over reason. Wasn't this enough?

She descended the stairs on the way back to the Inquisition soldiers without waiting. Solas followed near, face set in stone. Neither spoke.

No one stopped them or asked for what happened as they passed the Orlesian caravans and the healer's cart, trekked down the hill to where the Inquisition set up their tents near the stream. Kiaran was already unlacing the outer layers of her dress as she approached the tent she shared with Cassandra.

Solas continued past until he was a shadow among the forest trees a short distance away.

A basin was already prepared in the tent with a stack of washcloths and towels folded next to it. Kiaran warmed the water to a near-boil with a wave of her hand. She left the bloody garments in a bundle in the corner before she began to scrub away the blood, as hard and abrasively as she could.

It wasn't that she couldn't see Barris and his remaining soldiers were good people. It wasn't the blood rituals, the red lyrium, or even the sheer volume of corpses they left behind. Aedhin could have changed the relationship, the dynamic, of the Order and the Chantry.

She scratched away the angry tears with the rough washcloth.

The fact was, in the end, he still chose not to.

 

* * *

 

The clouds above passed with only the barest of drizzle.

Cleaning up, switching to his traveling clothes, was the easiest part of the day. He'd never welcomed the cold rinse of a stream so heartily before. Under all the pretty stitched leather and armour, he was still sweating, feverish, and though they'd been spared the effort of closing rifts here the mark still throbbed. He must have spent half an hour in the stream, in the rain, holding the mark under the current, naked except for the thin cotton breeches he preferred to sleep in. Aedhin was still flushed and red when he redressed in his tent later.

Solas returned to the camp after dark, wordless but calmer, when stars peeked out above them. He retired immediately to his tent, politely declining the company of their party. The Orlesians and their guards left right away, most lauding Aedhin for his victory over his betrayal. The Chargers and the unhurt soldiers took up the guard for the night, promising Aedhin and his companions a bit of peace. Minus Solas, they all sat wordless around the fire in the middle. Kiaran nursed a headache with a frozen leaf of spindleweed pressed to the side of her head. She stared at the fire, but her eyes were someplace else.

Aedhin wavered on the edge of conscious thought as a scout called him aside with their final headcount: soldiers killed, hurt, allies gained, supplies left... Cassandra must have noticed, because she stepped in to acknowledge and give command as Aedhin zoned out of the conversation.

The scout nodded and left.

The look Cassandra gave him radiated genuine concern. "That demon tried to tempt you, didn't it?"

Aedhin gave her a slow pat on the shoulder. "Yes, but...not tonight." He looked her over. She sported a fresh new cut on her temple, small, and her hair was still wet from when she bathed earlier. She traded the metal and chainmail for soft boarhide and plain linen. The doublet must have been older, stitched with the symbol of the Sunburst throne instead of the Inquisition emblem. He sighed.

"You should rest," she urged.

"I won't sleep," he replied. Aedhin let go of her finally, let his hand drop heavily to his side. "I know you're not..." He paused, looked to the ground. He wasn't just weary. He felt weak.

"I know you're angry," he clarified, gathered the courage to look her in the eye. Her brown eyes betrayed nothing, but cool, confident strength. He smiled a little.

"But join me to eat and let's worry about it tomorrow."

He was already three steps away from her when she answered.

"I am not angry."

Cassandra followed, voice gentler, softer than even when they were trapped in the tunnel. She nudged him ahead and they sat next to each other around the fire. A fragrant stew bubbled in the cauldron over the flame. Extra bowls and rolls of brown bread waited for them on the small folding table. He gestured Cassandra go first. This time, she did not bristle at his gentlemanly insistance. He looked across the campfire to Kiaran, who stayed close to Varric with a half-empty bowl in her hand. She threw the thawed leaf into the fire and wiped her hand on her pants.

As he filled his own in the quiet, he saw a line of stitches down Blackwall's thick forearm.

The crackle of flame and sipping at the stew was the only exchange between them all.

Varric broke it once everyone was seated, eating. He pulled a deck of cards from his jacket and shuffled, looked around them all with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows. "Since we're in this all-nighter together," he began, "We might as well make the most of it."

He dealt out for Wicked Grace. Cassandra insisted she couldn't remember the rules, but took the cards anyway.

"We're not gambling are we?" Aedhin asked, "I don't know if I could count sovereigns right now, let alone put them in."

"Just your pride, Herald," Varric assured him. "Who'd like to start?"

"Your stories are better."

This was the first Kiaran spoke since she left the stronghold. When she looked to Varric, her gaze was warmer, friendlier. Aedhin thanked Andraste at the back of his thoughts, that she'd built at least some friendships since arriving from Redcliffe.

Varric's chuckle came easy. It comforted all of them. "Since you and the Seeker already know all my good stories about Hawke, let me tell you about this one time his brother Carver ran off on his own with the pirate captain, Isabela..."

When the dawn broke overhead, they were all chuckling quietly with piles of cards forgotten in their laps.

Kiaran held out her hands to show the size of the door she described. "It's this tiny little thing," she said, gesturing in a square. "And she tells me, 'That's only for emergencies, you really don't want to go in there.' As if that's supposed to explain the little hatch."

Aedhin could already tell where this was going and he smiled fondly across the fire.

"So he's gone for a week doing Maker knows what, and left Mira and I to look after the place. And every night I hear this awful tumbling about in it." Kiaran paused, looked to Varric, who seemed to know the secret to her story, wearing an enormous grin.

"So what did you do?" Cassandra stood to get more tea from the pot in front of them.

"Well I paid the boy from the potion shop three sovereigns to take her out for the night since she wouldn't stop talking about him." Kiaran's tired eyes lit up. "And then I crawled inside of it to see where it went." As she described the tunnel, Varric held back peals of laughter. Aedhin held still, didn't want to distract her from the tale. She never said anything specific about her time in Kirkwall before. He didn't want her to stop, wanted her to relive the happy memory even if it was only one. It comforted him to know it wasn't all terrible, those ten years they spent separated.

"A litter of twelve!" she repeated, "He had kittens hiding in that little storeroom. They all lied to me! Imagine - I'm stitching an injury from a mining accident and all these baby cats are...I was so upset."

"I'll bet you were," Blackwall clapped a hand on his knee. "Kicked them right out did you?"

Kiaran gave a silent, dramatic shrug.

"Oh no you didn't," Varric waved his finger, "I'll bet you named them all."

She shook her head. "Nope."

"Stone-cold professional, your sister," the warden chuckled.

"Nah," Aedhin pointed, where Kiaran tugged at the small stud in her ear, "She plays with the left earring when she lies."

"I do not!"

Sunlight peeked over the horizon and warmed the camp in bright yellow light. The five of them laughed again.

"Fine," she admitted, "I named two. They were _very_ good at catching rats and spiders."

By now, the scouts and soldiers rose and the call to dismantle the camp rang out across the field. It was then that Solas exited his tent and Cassandra reached for the bucket of dirt to put out the fire. Varric began collecting the forgotten cards. The sound of popping joints and cracking bones filled the air around them as they stood.

And then as if a spell broke, the sombre reality settled upon them again. Cassandra, serious, calling out orders. Aedhin strapped his weapons to his back. Blackwall left to gather the horses and Kiaran silently assisted in packing, her gaze long lost in her thoughts.

Therinfal Redoubt loomed over them like a nagging shadow.

The ride back across Ferelden was punctuated with quiet, broken only with reports of what lay ahead on the road. His sister, withdrawn and wearing a distrustful look in her eyes, deflected Aedhin's attempts at conversation.

As they stopped for rest in Lothering, the message came from one of Leliana's agents.

Half of Redcliffe castle burned to the ground. There was no one left inside it, no trace of magic or where the Magister had gone. Not a soul in the Hinterlands saw where they went, and a high dragon was spotted nesting near Lake Calenhad. The Inquisition barricaded the pass for now.

But more importantly, all the mages had disappeared.

The traveling party only stopped long enough to rest and swap the horses. He caught his sister flipping back through the book she always carried with her, tracing her fingers over a sketch of her friend they left behind, the elf mage with all the earrings and tattoos on his face.

When she looked at Aedhin, the smallest look of blame and guilt crossed her face before she turned away and pulled her hood over her head.

The sun was setting when they took to the road again, a smaller group, the six of them with four soldiers and a scout. The camp supplies were left with the rest.

They weren't stopping until they changed the horses at Dennet's farm. Haven needed them back as soon as possible, to move on the Breach the moment the Order arrived.

The rush helped, in a way.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see were piles of bodies and one conquered plot after another...the world razed in strife and the burning banners of the Inquisition. He saw soldiers, mountains of them, dead and beaten and broken. Sometimes it was Therinfal. Sometimes it was the Storm Coast. He saw the Breach splitting, fracturing, wide and web-like across the sky.

 _What do you see?_ Envy asked him.

When Aedhin closed his eyes, it all looked too real, too close.

What he saw was failure, and a bloody crown upon his head.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She took the book from the desk, and looked at him like she expected him to stop her. He gave a nod and she began flipping through the pages. Absently, she pushed aside a stack of reports to sit on the desk. It was a weirdly comfortable motion. It sent a prickle down his spine, and he felt at once if he should question if this was reality.

Kiaran sat at a desk in the corner of the Chantry, sorting some of Minaeve's research. She pretended to do it out of inspiration of a new way to ward off demons from her brother's mark, but the truth of it was that she wanted to hear the War Room conclusion before Aedhin dressed it up for her later in the privacy of their cabin.

Cullen and Cassandra argued for over an hour about Aedhin's choice to partner with the Order rather than conscripting them. Strangely, no one else in the room intervened as they had it out. Kiaran supposed the choice was already made and the templars were expected any day now. He couldn't take back his decision even if he wanted to.

"Are you two almost done?" Aedhin's voice was the first to carry over the noise of the other two shouting back and forth. Kiaran leaned her head against the wall to listen to more.

"...point...isn't to step all over the entire socio-political structure of Southern Thedas," Aedhin explained. "Cassandra is correct...there's been a lot of corruption for a long time..." As his voice dropped, Cassandra's raised, questioning his decision all over again.

"Cassandra." Sharper now, he sounded like their father, and Kiaran scrunched her face in a frown. "Do you burn a good plot to the ground because the wood of the barn rots?" Silence. "Divine Justinia set up the Conclave to reset the understanding between the Chantry and magic. Am I incorrect?"

Grumbling, and then Cassandra huffed.

"The point wasn't to abolish everything and put everyone in the center of abject chaos."

"You have a point with that one," Kiaran muttered to herself, and sat up straight again when the voices were too hushed to overhear. She skimmed over the notes again in boredom. Already, she'd read them six times and already made her own notes. The reality was, the Fade dripped from the mark on her brother's hand and the only way to stop demons from chasing him was to kill them when they appeared. There was no proactive defense, no counter-measure to take to make it stop.

"How long until the templars arrive, Josephine?" A change of subject. Kiaran leaned into the wall again. Suddenly the sound of metal and shouting --both warriors drew their swords and Josephine gave a small shriek.

 

"Maker's breath!"

"Stand back!"

" _Wait!_ "

 

She looked at the wall in incredulous disbelief. Were they resorting to a real fight over this? From Cassandra, she expected it, but Cullen was usually more reserved when it came to showing strength...

"For the love of...put your swords away! He's a friend!"

" _That_ is a demon!"

It was hard to tell when the Seeker meant the word literally, particularly when she was yelling at Kiaran's brother. Carefully, Kiaran stood, folded the papers away in her book and headed to the door.

"I...I can be unseen, kill things that would hurt people. I can help, I promise! I won't get in your way!"

Was that...? She held the book to her chest. No, the spirits in the Fade couldn't cross over the veil without becoming demons. That was the short of it.

 _You're projecting because of what happened to Luin_ , she told herself, eyes on the floor. Leliana's attempt to console her still hurt like a fresh cut.

 

_"The scouts last saw them heading toward a jetty on the far side of Lake Calenhad," she said, "Which crosses the area where the high dragon is nesting." When Kiaran said nothing, she continued. "They waited but no one came back. The way had to be barricaded to keep her from hunting civilians at the Crossroads. There are old mining paths--"_

_"It's interesting how no one seems to want to be upfront about anything with me," Kiaran replied coldly. "I've literally killed men with the magic I was born with, days ago, at almost no effort. Do you think that's the first awful thing I've lived through?"_

_"I was only suggesting..."_

_She cut Leliana off again. "I don't need to be coddled. Quit patronizing me, all of you."_

 

Then the door opened, her brother pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thank you, Leliana, for being a little more open..."

And out he strode, the boy in her dreams.

Her book hit the floor. "...Cole?!"

He looked up at her in a panic. "You...how do you remember? You're not...supposed to remember. You were only supposed to hear."

A smile broke on her face and she reached for his hands. "Remember? How could I forget, you saved my..." The whole war council stared at her. She let go. Cole disappeared before them.

Cassandra's eyes narrowed to thin slits. "How on earth do _you_ know the demon?"

"He's not a demon," insisted both siblings at once. Kiaran's smile quickly turned back to a frown.

"Cole saved me. Twice," Kiaran added quickly, shifting uneasily under Cassandra's sharp stare. "I just thought he was a...spirit following me in the Fade, when I slept." Her eyes flicked to Cullen. "He warned me away from Hightown before...and then again..." She trailed off. She hadn't revealed where she'd been when the Conclave exploded. Kiaran imagined Cassandra would have her locked in the dungeon for fleeing then when she could have helped.

"And I never would have escaped the Envy demon without him," Aedhin emphasized, put a hand on Kiaran's shoulder like she'd just helped him win a fight. She pushed it off.

"Regardless, I've explained my reasoning on both counts," Aedhin said, raising both hands. "And my mind isn't changing. We'll convene here again when the templar veterans arrive. Commander, have your plan of execution ready for me."

"At your leave." Cullen nodded his head and stepped away, Leliana following soon after. Cassandra muttered something under her breath and stormed the opposite direction.

Aedhin shook his head with a sigh. Josephine came up between them.

"Never a dull moment," she chimed cheerfully. "Now if I might borrow you, Aedhin, there are a few documents from Orlais I need you to oversee..."

Kiaran gathered her things and made for the door. She had a hundred burning questions for Cole, if she could find him. If Aedhin called out to her, she didn't hear, and stepped out briskly to the blinding glare of the sun on fresh snow.

The Breach seemed brighter still in the glow of midday.

She wondered where she'd go once it closed. She couldn't bear to stick around for the reconstruction of the Circle and Order, the enforced confinement, ignorance. Even if she left, if this was the way things went...she'd end up in the same spots. Hiding, fighting. Lying and stealing. How her brother could embrace her and make promises in one breath, and break her heart promising others something else...well, she learned that lesson long ago. Love didn't make things hurt less, and it didn't mean you also couldn't feel hate.

When she stopped, she found herself facing Solas' cabin, but the elf was nowhere to be seen.

She sat on the fence near his garden.

Solas was friends with spirits. If she waited, maybe Cole would turn up here, advise her again, tell her which way to go. Pilgrims, soldiers, scouts, they all walked past. Kiaran kept her eyes on her feet. She didn't want to talk, make casual pleasantries. Better if less people knew what she was like, the sound of her voice. Easier to disappear that way.

 

* * *

 

A rockslide in the pass delayed the first group of templars by a day and a half. Sometimes, Cullen wondered if the very land reacted to the Breach, the same way it decayed under the Blight. But the sun was set when the vets arrived, and so they called off the march until the morning. If anything _natural_ happened in the pass, the engineers and remaining soldiers would need daylight to properly excavate and get their people out.

The herald left some time earlier with Cullen's map, detailing the path cleared to the temple. The construction of restabilizing the pass had taken the better part of the last two months, and now that it was done, other worries edged in at his mind.

The mages in the camp were split between two factions: Vivienne's loyalists and those apostates that wanted to see their freedom after this. With his own office stacked high in reports and requisitions, he'd retreated there with the intent of getting as much done as he could before the morning, get the preparations under way for whatever reaction the Chantry _and_ the mages would have once the Breach was contained. And yet, he stood over a handful of pages for his own project.

Cullen had never been much of a reader. He appreciated stories, the artistry within it, but couldn't understand the actual creation and flow of words on pages that didn't get straight to the point. As a soldier, he was convinced long ago that stories were a waste of time. The pages in front of him were a mess of diagrams and drawings, rough ideas and lists of titles and ranks. The handwriting was shakier where he tried recalling the facts in Kinloch.

That page had only six lines, one rough sketch.

Feeling the blood burning in his ears and his heart begin to race, Cullen flipped the page over. Another day.

Not that it eased the worry. The mages here were mostly unhappy, uncomfortable. He needed to propose a solution they all could agree on for Aedhin's return.

 _If he returns_ , came the grim thought. That much raw power should have killed him already. He read Harding's report from the Storm Coast at least a dozen times. A bright flash of light, and a burst of power - it stunned both Solas and Vivienne and the shelf of rock crashed back down into the tunnel. It was a miracle no one was hurt. The herald's arm, "lit up the dark like a witching hour moon." Aedhin was ashen when everyone came to their senses.

It wasn't just his experience with the Fade that Cullen insisted Solas join the march up the valley. He might be the only one who could keep Aedhin from dying in the process.

He wished things had been different. He wished the incident in Kinloch never happened, that he still had friends, comrades, associates among the templars and mages there, instead of the ghosts that came for him in the night. He wished he'd tried harder in Kirkwall to understand, to step out of that haze of hatred and disinterest.

Vivienne's side wanted the return of the Circles, for things to go back the way they were. He'd tried once to ask her what could change but she carefully deflected the conversation onto his own insecurities. Getting anything out of her involved a full frontal assault in The Game from either Josephine or Leliana. He didn't stand a chance. At first, he thought Vivienne might bend when the other mages took notice of Kiaran and her influence with Aedhin, her successes in battle and her quick recovery from the attempted assassination. And while he agreed that the magnetic relationship between mages and templars needed to continue, they could not reinstate it as it once was.

The First Enchanter came from Ostwick and later relocated to Montsimmard. Neither of those Circles were known for being particularly aggressive, corrupt, itching for change. Her experience, her expertise, was valuable but he honestly couldn't tell if she thought it best for the mages or for herself that the Circle be reinstated as it were.

"Confound it all," he muttered, "I should have..." There were a thousand things he should have done. He should have looked into, than away, the first time Meredith crossed the line. He should have made a better effort to know Garrett Hawke, instead of politely ignoring when his name came on his desk. He should have--

A knock on his cabin door broke him from the endless circle of his thoughts. Cullen tried to roll the kink from his neck as he called, "Come in."

As if summoned on cue, the door opened and there stood Kiaran. She was quick to close the door shut behind her and kept her hands tucked under her arms.

"Cole said you needed to see me?" She glanced around the room. "It's a bit late, don't you think?"

Her voice lacked its usual push. He wondered what exactly the demon Cole was, or how it knew Kiaran had been on his mind. He chose not to voice the curiosity. She was here now, and that worked out fine.

"I apologize if it's inconvenient--"

"It's not." She hovered near the chair. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, before Cullen realized she was waiting.

"Oh. Please sit." He cleared his throat, thought also about sitting, but once he sat, he might not rise, and lest the mountain of unsigned responsibility swallow him whole, he chose to stand. Kiaran sat cross-legged on the chair with her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands.

"I don't have a lot of good memories being told to sit on this side of your desk," she said, and stared right up at him with the barest twitch of a smirk.

He was at a loss for words, and simply frowned. Had they not established those days - his time as Knight-Captain - were over? He wasn't pulling her into his office for...

"Sorry."

Her apology dragged him back to her.

She offered a thin smile. "That was funnier in my head."

Cullen cleared his throat and looked away. "I...have been told I could stand to take things less seriously, once in a while. I will keep that in mind." He forced himself not to pace as he'd like to, and instead of clasping his hands behind him like he did when he started to say something he wasn't sure he liked, Cullen leaned back over the desk.

He handed Kiaran a few of the pages of diagrams.

Her cursory glance over them told him she knew exactly what they were. "Shouldn't the First Enchanter...?"

"I've actually never been _less_ interested in what the First Enchanter has to say," he said firmly, "I...believe..." Talking to her suddenly seemed so hard, when there wasn't anger and irritation toward her childish outbursts, or trying hard to keep to the point as she hounded him for a reaction. "I believe you can offer better insight on this that any of the loyalists from Montsimmard."

When she looked up at him then, Cullen thought he might be speaking to a different woman. There was a quick flicker in her eyes - understanding? Sympathy? Relief? - before she stood and reached for the pen across the desk. At those first strokes of corrections on the page, he realized he only knew the mage - not the scholar.

She handed the first sheet back to him. "The first problem is the Chantry. It shouldn't have any say in the delegation of power for mages or templars." Instead of going back to the chair, she leaned into the edge of the desk instead. "If you tell people their whole lives that they're monsters, eventually they start to believe it. That's why no one stood up to Fiona when she signed over to that magister."

He looked down at the first note next to his sketches on the Chantry. There she had written: _Mages are not revered mothers. Why?_

"An interesting question." He mulled it over, felt her eyes burning into him. "I'm not sure that..."

"We get a lot of flack for being born this way." She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. "The Maker makes all of us in his image, the Chant says. Of course it'll never happen, but the Chantry either has to change its approach to magic or remove itself from the picture." Kiaran reached across and pointed to another edit she made on his notes, further down. "You...used to do this too."

The tiny script read: _Mages are not wolves you train into dogs._

Used to do this. Was that how it looked, how it felt? The guilt took the breath from his chest and put ice in his lungs. Mages being likened to savage animals. _Kill them all, they can't be trusted!_ After Kinloch, Meredith was the only one who--

"Cullen?" Kiaran leaned forward and tried to catch his attention, voice softer. Her hand lingered halfway between reaching for him. "Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly fine," he said. The default answer, even when it was always dishonest. He felt it, the pulse of migraine at the base of his skull. Within the hour, it would render him near-blind, and he'd have to put off the paperwork until tomorrow. Her face said she didn't believe him. But she didn't press, uncomfortable as she looked. Instead, she changed the subject.

"Is this really the first priority after Aedhin closes the Breach?" Her voice was quieter, and she sounded tired. Almost as tired as he felt.

"No," he confessed, "But if there's a chance the Inquisition could stop more people from being abused or killed..." He set the paper down on the desk and collected the notes into a pile to be put away. "Perhaps it's foolish."

For a long time, she said nothing, twisting a lock of hair tightly in her fingers while she chewed on her bottom lip. Cullen's gaze fell to her fingertips, where she'd filed her nails as short as she could. The tips of her fingers were still calloused where she'd burnt them, where the blisters hardened as they healed. The last three fingers of her left hand were still black under the nail beds. The hand she cast her second spells with, without the support of an enchanted weapon. A skill branded apostasy, danger, by the Chantry and the Order. A skill that very well saved his life when that demon broke her staff in two.

"I don't think it's foolish," she finally said, voice withdrawn, with just the slightest tinge of regret.

"You don't believe it's possible," he concluded.

She pursed her lips, found interest in the metal stamp sitting on the corner of his desk. She ran her fingers over the Inquisition symbol. "I just don't see how it could happen right now."

Cullen paced several steps away, rubbing the sore spot at the back of his neck. "It won't happen right now," he confirmed, "Just like closing the Breach brings us no closer to the truth of what happened on the morning of the Divine Conclave. But I..." He hadn't voiced this out loud before, not even with Cassandra. "I believe the role of the Inquisition is not only to restore order, but to provide an example from which to prevent future corruption."

Kiaran set the stamp down with a heavy clunk, and got up to follow him around the small office. "You don't want to set things up like the Circle? I thought that was the whole point of pursuing the Order." There it was, that edge in her voice, the one that heralded disagreement.

Best to nip it now, lest... "No. I do not desire the establishment of another Circle, nor do I see the Templar Order as a point-blank solution to our greater problems." When he looked back at her this time, his shoulders were straight, and he crossed his arms.

She stepped in front of him, both hands on her hips, looking up. And then, to his shock, a bit of a smile, like she was trying not to get too excited. "Well? Keep going."

He tried not to look as thrown off as he felt. "You haven't seen the barracks, have you?"

She gave a flippant toss of her head. "Lady Montilyet insists that family of the Herald sleep separate. No."

"Ah...she had a similar argument for myself."

He reached to the top of his bookshelf and pulled down a scroll, a blueprint of Haven's construction when preparations began before the Conclave. "This was Cassandra's first idea to establish our difference in force," he explained, unrolling it on the desk. "The only separations are those between women and men, and the senior officers quarters here." He pointed to a smaller room in the building. Cullen waited for her to catch on, a small, warming flame of excitement lighting up in his stomach. It took him by surprise, but he latched to it, like a shield to defend against the headache, the memories, itching at his edges.

"The only..." She looked up sharply, disbelieving. "That's it?"

"There were fights in the early days following the Conclave," he continued, "But your brother deferred to our early decision not to separate based on abilities except for those who we elevated to positions of rank." Cullen then opened a drawer on the desk, pulled out a small book with dog-eared pages and small papers sticking out. "I expect more arguments when the full force of the Order arrives, but since requisitions and supplies are not handled by the army unless they've been deployed..."

He flipped open to his notes on the the surroundings around Haven. "I was considering your suggestion about combat practice when the construction finished. Leliana's people excavated a tunnel path that runs beneath the mountains. It resisted most of the explosion tests we ran while you and the Herald were in Ferelden."

"So it should hold up to magic."

"More specifically, it should contain it enough to keep the mountain from coming down on us," he added. "I thought to propose this to Cassandra for advanced training, once we've established a better relationship between our soldiers and supporters. It may be well necessary as we uncover more about these Venatori and the truth of the attack on Divine Justinia."

Cullen looked up from the page to Kiaran. She took the book from the desk, and looked at him like she expected him to stop her. He gave a nod and she began flipping through the pages. Absently, she pushed aside a stack of reports to sit on the desk. It was a weirdly comfortable motion. It sent a prickle down his spine, and he felt at once if he should question if this was reality.

"You're not a Marcher, are you?" she murmured, running her finger along the script as she read. She glanced up once before looking back down. "I figured with your accent, but your cursive is different, is all."

"I am from Ferelden. Honnleath, actually." He hoped she wouldn't ask more, wondered what more she could confer from his writing... "You can tell that just by...?"

"This won't work," she interrupted, handing the book back, on the page where he'd detailed a path where merchants could safely move lyrium shipments. "You can't transport raw lyrium where we would practice. Even encased, the trace of it makes mages sick. Solas and I both felt the effects even by the time we reached Dennet's farm." Kiaran looked up. "Have you asked Blackwall?"

"Asked him what?"

"How the wardens do it?" She tried to contain a smile, biting on the corner of her mouth, but her voice raised and she spoke faster. "They're all mages and warriors, templars that defected, right? Anyone can be a Warden? And they all train together in the same space?"

Cullen found himself also fighting not to mirror her expression, keep it professional, remember that the decisions he made, the ideas he shared, affected more than just the two of them inside his cabin. He pulled himself back, back from the thrill of a working idea, a safe distance from the distraction to the increasingly painful pounding and pulsing at the back of his skull.

"I hadn't considered how they manage it."

He felt her eyes on him again. When he looked up, she was studying him, gaze moving from his face to his shoulders, down to the sword on his hip. Instead of her usual suspicious furrow, she appeared more lost than anything. He'd seen this expression on her face once, on the night they received word of the earthquake on the Storm Coast. He felt it then, too, the small shift, the change in her demeanour. Almost as if the animousity between them was dissolving.

The headache hurt and already his eyes were burning but he was relieved, glad, for the conversation, for her input.

"I have to go," she said before he could speak, and headed for the door. Her hand lingered on the handle.

"I'll be...around." And then she was gone, back into Haven's dark cold.

Cullen put the book down gently on his desk, carefully folded down the pages on which she'd written. Most nights, he'd push himself until he could barely stand. He decided tonight, this accomplishment - whatever it was - was enough. Instead, he put it all away, began the motions of unclipping greaves, gauntlets, and his chestplate. How strange, her timing...and her point about the wardens...the thoughts muddled with shooting, flaring pain that wrapped around the sides of his head and pounded like a hammer on stone. The nausea came next, and with it, the painful tremor in his hands.

He didn't settle into his cot so much as fall apart on top of it, every creak like a thundering echo in his ears.

When the Maker finally blessed him with unconsciousness, his dreams came with a sad longing, replaying a thousand conversations, confrontations, the different turns he might have taken, some outcomes better, some worse. He dreamed of a different path and a better understanding, being at a better place and a better time, remembering a kind-hearted, beautiful Warden when the hard decisions crossed him later in Kirkwall.

One where he didn't play a part in a spirited Circle mage running away to live on the streets in Kirkwall, where their reintroduction some-years later was more favourable, more genuine, where he looked forward to picking up where they left off, where change was more than scribbles on whatever piece of scrap paper he could spare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm unhappy with this chapter in that there are earlier parts of the story I wonder if I should have reworked, but--!! I challenged myself to make sure I post a chapter a week at least until this one is done so here we are, 21 in! The process of writing and posting rather than fully completing first is new for me and I've learned SO much, especially devouring all the other amazing fiction in this fandom. 
> 
> A huge thank you to all who've left comments, subscribed, and bookmarked this. I'm shy by nature and it's huge to me that my self-indulgent headcanons also bring you enjoyment. I haven't had the easiest year but being able to share and see some small impact from this really keeps me grounded (and writing --something I haven't committed to since I finished university 100 million years ago)
> 
> Rambling and feelings done...see you next week where...we close the Breach!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lady Montilyet, you wound me, turning me out into the cold like this."
> 
> Her hand lingered on his arm as she walked him to the door. "I'm certain your strength will see you well through the night."

It was one bottle of wine, and then the start of the second one when Minaeve excused herself for the night and closed the door firmly behind her. They hadn't discussed anything of substance for hours, and that was perfect.

The Chantry was quiet, no rushing, not a sound.

Everyone was outside celebrating the sealing of the Breach.

He couldn't have held still with his arm and his head burning anyway, he told her, so one bottle of Antivan apothic turned into two. At some point Josephine stopped her paper-sorting and joined Aedhin on the bench, tucked under his arm as they shared stories of the last several years since they'd seen each other.

She swirled the last of this cup in her goblet.

Aedhin tipped his back against his mouth. "Was your family upset you left your position in Orlais?"

"I think they were worried," she replied, settling back against him and looking away to the small painting of her parents on the desk. "I do believe they trust me. They've surely heard already of everything we have done here."

"Everything _you_ have done here," Aedhin corrected. He playfully clinked his glass against hers, dropped his voice a little to get her to look back at him. "All I've done is show up and try to follow your script."

Josephine shook her head. "No, I cannot take all of the credit when you have been the one to lead our people out into danger, and bring them home, time and time again." Aedhin pulled the bottle down from the ledge and refilled his goblet. Josephine held out hers, and nudged his shoulder when he was done.

"I will, however, accept your sincere flattery for as long as you wish to give it."

"You always did know how to appreciate the best of me," he teased. "Where shall I start? The brilliant storyteller who charmed my Orlesian mother out of letting my father give me the beating I deserved?"

At first, she gave him a puzzled glance, and then her face lit up in a smile. "Ah, the incident with the rug? I should have ratted my brothers out for that one."

Aedhin's arm circled around her a little tighter. "We keep their secrets so maybe they'll look after us when we're older," he said with a laugh. "Besides, they saved me from a marriage I'd have hated. I hear that Rivenna is insufferable these days."

The marked hand was hot, but Josephine was a comforting warm under his hold, smelling of gardenia and candlewax. Real, strong, smiling next to him. Back in the pit of the temple remains, the envy demon's nightmare danced in front of him in the hazing swirl of the Breach and he felt something else stutter in him. _He wasn't doing enough to protect them._ He returned to Haven shaken, alive, exhausted, and inspired. A thousand brimming ideas lit in his mind, oppositions to Envy's visions and a vision of where he wanted himself. Cullen said he had suggestions for their own forces. Aedhin encouraged him to hold it out until tomorrow.

 

_"I don't think your sister wants to wait."_

_"You're conspiring with Kiaran now?"_

_Cullen laughed, but Aedhin couldn't decipher the tone of it._

_"I suspect I'm a player in_ **_her_ ** _machinations, not the other way around. Enjoy this night. The soldiers certainly will."_

 

"But I almost lost track." Aedhin pulled himself back to the moment, that second, the two of them pressed together and wine-blushed. "That was the first charm, after all. For all the riches in that estate there was no gold as bright as your eyes when you told that story..." He turned a little as her gaze found interest in the goblet, and was about to speak more when she let out a breathless laugh.

"You might be bordering on the insincere, Herald."

"Aedhin," he corrected, "There's no one else here."

She looked up to him with a playful lift of her brows, a slight pinch of her lips. "If that is your wish."

He put his goblet down and took her empty hand in his, and after a breath pressed his forehead to hears. The wine thrummed his pulse loud in his ears and the sudden movement left him dizzy, bold. "It's not the only one."

Another breathless laugh and burning heat from her cheeks --or maybe his? He couldn't tell, but she nudged him off gently and stood to smooth her clothes. When she looked up, her sparkling, mysterious court smile was in place and she held out her hand to him.

"I am being selfish. You should be out celebrating with the Inquisition. It will do them well to see you among them this night."

He nodded, more to himself, an inward chuckle, of course it wouldn't be that easy. When he stood he gave he placed his hand over his chest. "Lady Montilyet, you wound me, turning me out into the cold like this."

Her hand lingered on his arm as she walked him to the door. "I'm certain your strength will see you well through the night."

His last motion in the Chantry came without thought, an instinctive grab of her hand and brushing of his lips against her knuckles. And then the warning horn rang out, shaking the walls of the Chantry.

By the time they made it to Haven's front gates, torches and the eery blue-green of the Fade lit the mountain paths in the distance. The number was uncountable. It all slowed to a pained, soundless haze around him. Someone called for help on the other side.

Kiaran was the first to shove off the bar on the gate and stumble out into the snow, before anyone could stop her.

Off-white silk and silver Magisterium robes were soaked crimson with blood, as the Tevinter mage from Redcliffe hung barely awake over the shoulder of Kiaran's elvhen friend. Luindir dropped the mage off on the arms of a soldier before giving Kiaran an absent pat on the shoulder.

"What did you say her name was, Dorian?" The elf turned away with longbow in hand, and pulled a wicked-looking arrow from the quiver on his back. The head of it curved into a serrated hook and the black edges gleamed with something sticky. The end of it lit bright with fire and made a thundering twang as he loosed it into the mountain beyond them. Several of the torches fell shortly after, and then Luin clenched his fist. Screams and shouts echoed from ahead as black shapes twisted and snapped in the snow. The noise came rushing back, as both Aedhin and Cullen descended the stairs to hear them out.

"Calpurnia," Dorian grunted, "A magister."

Luindir looked between Aedhin and Cullen, deciding to address the latter. "Our last count was three hundred mages," he said, and it was then that Aedhin noticed a dribbling line of blood from the elf's ear. "And scores of abominations." His sharp, cold blue eyes moved to Aedhin. "They're coming to claim _you_."

Cullen turned to address the crowding soldiers and templars behind them, and Aedhin tried to find feeling in his fingers, in his lungs, as his breath stuck and a nauseated despair swelled in his stomach. The green laceration in the sky was silent and unmoving and Aedhin felt frozen in place.

"Herald."

Aedhin turned to Cullen's voice.

"This is no fortress. We can only control this battle if we control the pass. They absolutely cannot be allowed to disarm the seige equipment."

"We'll keep it from harm," Aedhin promised, wondered faintly how much of it was the apothic red and how much of it was his own tired courage. "Get the people tucked away. Maker's speed."

They carried Dorian inside, and before he could encourage Kiaran to follow in she dug her staff resolutely into the snow.

"No."

There was no time for argument. Soldiers and templars both split into small groups to choke out the travel points surrounding the village. Aedhin turned around to address his companions. The usual bravado he put on felt faded and worn in his throat, the raging desire to quell the senselessness lost suddenly to a very real sensation of fear. Envy frightened him, but Envy's visions did not bring a mountain army of mages on them all. He'd been raised to fear magic his whole life, and never understood why, when his wonderful younger siblings were a picture of goodness and Andrastian moral. Even as the Breach and the mark ripped apart his palm, he'd never feared the power that breathed and beat so naturally in the blood of others. Not when he watched the terror in the eyes of a group of magic-touched children in the ruins of violence, trying to survive and see themselves as more than the horrors that set it all off.

Now, he thought he might understand. The Conclave, the vehemence in which the Chantry looked on Kirkwall, looked on him. His heart stuttered in his chest as they looked to him for command, and Aedhin found the words failing to break through his clenched teeth. How could they stand a chance against so many armed mages, intent to kill?

Cassandra's solemn nod, the delicate way that Vivienne tapped her fingers against her staff, the heavy sureness with which Varric loaded a cold steel bolt into the crossbow. The ancient understanding and hint of despair in Solas' eyes as he looked beyond them to the fires lighting, and the moonlight glint off the blades brandished by Blackwall and the Iron Bull. Cole flickered like a shade near them, daggers in hand.

"We split in two," he said, "Divide our strengths with the templars and keep them from crossing the fjord."

For all the good it did.

The dragon - archdemon? - rained fire and gales on them with the raging beat of its wings, and Haven burned around them as they tried to divide their energy between saving the civilians and slaughtering the mages that crossed the wall. Somewhere in the chaos he lost track of his sister, and eventually they fell to Cullen's call to get inside the Chantry. Inside, Kiaran and Luindir both shouldered Adan, whose leg was twisted sideways at the knee. He was carried off by one of the Chargers shortly after.

Aedhin wondered if this was the heralding of a Blight. When Cullen approached him in the foyer, the grim bitterness on the Commander's face was enough to extinguish any hope still flickering in Aedhin.

"The Chantry wasn't build to withstand this," he said. "But we'll make them work for it. Archdemon or no."

"It's not an archdemon," Cole offered near them, a hand pressed to the bleeding swell in Roderick's stomach, "It certainly looks like one, doesn't it?"

Cullen drew Aedhin aside. "The only option I can think of is to bury us under the mountain. That should wipe out their entire force, as well." The resolute grimness in his voice chilled the fever in Aedhin's bones and mind, a last resounding cold that sobered him to the reality. This was where they'd die.

"Make it impossible for him to get this," Aedhin concluded, as he looked down to his left arm. "The trebuchet inside the town?" Cullen nodded.

"There's no other option--"

"Wait," rasped the Chancellor behind them, doubled over Cole. "There's a path, the summer pilgrimage..." In half-breaths and shudders he detailed a trail following north and west through the Frostbacks, cleared only every other year. His directions were pained and doubting, as he tried to make sense through the pain and the blood. Cole encouraged him through it, and at the end of the explanation, Roderick turned hazy, bloodshot eyes on Aedhin.

"I misjudged you. May Andraste forgive me for it. I'm so sorry--" he doubled over coughing blood onto Cole.

Aedhin gave Cullen a slow nod.

"I'll send a flaming arrow when we're past the valley," he said, "Can you hold that demon's attention long enough?"

Aedhin's face stretched to a smirk, wan and thin and nervous. "I have a few ideas."

Kiaran broke from the crowd as Cullen shouted orders and instructions. She grabbed Aedhin by the coat, eyes a mix of fury and fear. She was uninjured, but her breaths came in shaking heaves and he let her huff in front of him as she fought to find her words. Aedhin's hands settled over hers calm and heavy, already knowing the argument and prepared to tell her goodbye.

"You're not going back out there," she said, "You're not!"

"Kiaran."

"I'm coming with you!" Her grip tightened and she stood on her toes to hold his attention.

"You're not." Gently, he pulled her fingers off his collar and held her fingers in a loose grasp. "Enough people have died for this thing in my hand."

"So you're just going to leave me?" The accusation came out as half a shriek, and he glanced behind Kiaran as both Cassandra and Cullen approached them again, Luindir only a few paces behind. The Chantry hall was almost cleared.

"Kiki, please." He bent down to kiss her head; his sister snarled and shook him away.

"That's not fair." Kiaran's voice cracked and when he caught her eyes again she was blinking back tears. "That's not fair!"

"There are abominations in the pass." The elf stepped in, expression serene and a voice like soft cotton. "These people will need you to protect them, da'len." He looked to Cassandra at his left. "The Seeker and I are quick, we will assist the final rearguard and catch you before the avalanche."

Kiaran shook her head and curled her fists in Aedhin's hands.

"I can give you a dozen soldiers," Cullen said, "Maker, maybe you'll..." He trailed off. "Roderick says there's a Chantry waypoint in the heart of the valley that lines with the sunrise." Aedhin let go of Kiaran, only to shove her forward into Cullen's hold. The commander's hand closed around both of her wrists and he held her back as the party left the Chantry. Where she might have sparked lightning and fire in her hands before, she merely struggled helpless against Cullen's strength and shouted that Aedhin couldn't leave an argument like this.

"Seal it off," Aedhin commanded as the door shut behind them. A small flick of the wrist from the elf, and a twisting of vines burst from the ground and knitted over the Chantry door. The three of them and the soldiers left behind took off to fight.

With bodies of mages littering the ground red around them, Aedhin clamped a hand on Cassandra's shoulder as the dragon roared in the distance. A few short months ago he looked at this woman spitting poison and vitriol over the explosion and thought about throwing her down the pass to save himself. Still, she persevered, stood at his side with sword raised and heart steady, supported him with unwavering faith as death chased them down, every single time.

Envy was wrong about her, too.

Cassandra turned to look at him, a flicker of softness in her gaze as her cheek brushed against his bare, split knuckles. He felt his heart plunge and buried what he wanted to say with it.

"I've got an idea. Go."

A thin lie, but she didn't argue, and with a solemn nod and a sad twitch of her lips, she called out to their remaining soldiers and Luin to follow. They were well out of sight when the dragon landed and the monster up the hill cornered Aedhin against the trebuchet.

The magister was mid-ramble when a tiny flicker of flame shot up high over the mountains, and Aedhin laughed to cut Corypheus off.

"You're textbook," was the last thing he said, grinning madly as he ripped down the guard on the trebuchet.

The Elder One fled.

The fires in Haven were snuffed out, and so too was buried the light of the Fade, in the hand of a man laughing through his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update! This chapter was originally much longer but I decided to rewrite it and break it down into smaller pieces.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As ice always thawed, so did the barbs and the nightmares of that time, untouched and unhindered by winter's gentle lullaby.

When the Seeker and the Commander stole off up the hill to search again before the light of the second day, Luin wondered if he should tell them they'd be best to keep moving. On that final trip, Kiaran climbed with them, looking resigned and mournful. The camp reminded Luin of the trip home with Aerin and Lirin, nervous chatter and muffled crying through rotations of anxious watches. Instead of deadly hot days and nights of freezing rain, the winter kept its grace, blanketing Haven's survivors in a quiet limbo that hovered on the precipice of freezing.

The priest that led them away died in on the first night, in the arms of the boy crackling with the energy of the Fade. He was left with the bodies of the wounded soldiers, buried under brush and snow in a cavern long-abandoned by the bear who first lived there.

The watch was easy, and between the apostate Solas and himself, the wards they constructed kept at bay the wolves that hunted the forests nearby. He didn't like the way Solas turned down his nose at the way Luin cast, nor the disdain with which he listened in on his muttered prayer. When he asked Luin about the Fade in the Green Dales, Luin had no answer. He hadn't slipped past the Veil without draughts of human-brewed lyrium in years. It did not call him, except for the barest whisper in his dreams and always just out of reach. In Luin's opinion, this was altogether better for the clan. This seemed to upset the apostate even more and they had not spoken since, except to share updates on the wards around the encampment.

But Solas was one of only two people among the survivors that Kiaran leaned toward in her sick sleeplessness since they abandoned the pilgrim village. So Luin kept the animousity to himself until Dorian finally awoke at his side the next day, and remarked on the peculiarity.

Now it was dark again. With tensions rising between the Herald's circle for the fourth time that day, Kiaran asked for one more trek up the hill of the valley. When she said the commander's name, Luin noted a tone of familiarity in her voice and an uncharacteristic pleading in the way she held her shoulders. The Seeker appeared to want to argue with her, but Commander Cullen stepped in with a weary finality to say this was the last time. The girl's tearful nod went without words but the gratitude and spark of hope was clear on her face.

"Shouldn't you be consoling her?" Dorian leaned against the tent post with an arm wrapped around his middle. "You sent her off with him, after all."

"That sort of loss cannot be so easily soothed," Luin replied. He paused before adding, "I do not yet know the secret to overcoming the guilt of not being able to do more." Two weeks ago the other mage might have quipped something light to change the subject, but now Dorian was quiet. Since their altercation in the valley, the silences between them stretched and stretched, where Dorian's usually cheerful face fell into a pensive expression. This time when Luin glanced back, Dorian opened and closed his mouth several times before blurting,

"Aerinthea?"

Luin gave a wry laugh. "I am cursing in my sleep again, I see." The exposure to the corrupt lyrium in Redcliffe seared open those old hurts, and he'd thought of little else since. Of course he'd be cursing her out in his sleep again, now that he wasn't traveling alone.

"I'm starting to get used to it," Dorian said, managing an uncomfortable smile. "Forgive my prying, but was she...?"

"Aerin is alive and well enough, as far as I know," he interrupted, and looked away, "To that reach, it's best if you never repeat _her_ name again. What else have I said?" To call out Aerin's name was to summon her.

Dorian cleared his throat, a nervous sound, and dug his toes at the snow. "Apologies, mostly, I think. Someone named Lirinnea. Nemiriel? That one's new, not sure if that one's a god, the way you..." A pained exhale, and Luin didn't think it was from the wound. "...whisper it." Before Luin could answer, Dorian spoke again.

"You don't have to tell me. I just feel strange acting like I haven't heard it. I cannot stand blatant and unnecessary dishonesty."

"And you ask because...?" Luin pushed a hand through his hair, kept his eyes trained far away on the starry sky and wondered what the weather was back home. Wondered if snowflakes and iced air from Nemiriel's fingers grew into something more controlled, guided and protected by the Keeper and the First as she developed into her power. Did she learn about the earth, and how she would one day call it to protect her own?

Dorian frowned a little, and then gave a defeated sigh. "Well this is the fourth deadly encounter we've survived together. Perhaps I'm interested in..." As he spoke, he looked like he changed his mind, "...getting to know you. As a friend. I apologize if I've not mastered this part. I don't have a great many of them...friends, I mean."

Luin looked around the two of them defensively, though no one here presented any threat, least of all to them. He found himself struggling to speak, a tight tug in his throat choking his words and attempting to drown the memory. He did try to kill Dorian while stuck in it. As ice always thawed, so did the barbs and the nightmares of that time, untouched and unhindered by winter's gentle lullaby.

"I should do better to let Falon'Din carry Lirinnea to rest," he finally mumbled. Dorian leaned in closer to hear, sympathy crossing his features in a whispered, _I'm sorry_ , as Luin crossed his arms and stood nearer to him against the tent, eyes downcast.

"As for Nemiriel, all you need to know is that she is my heart." A breath of hesitation, and then, "I will do better not to disturb you in the night."

"You don't disturb me," Dorian said, and let the conversation fall, stretching silence between them again.

Luin broke it first, this time. "Aren't you cold?"

Dorian laughed lightly, clutching his side. "In Ferelden? Always. I just assumed that was the natural state of being here." He nodded toward the hill where the search party disappeared. "The strapping commander owns it well enough. He's the standard for this camp, I think. I'm feeling rather inspired. Shoulders back and all that."

Luin smiled, though it wasn't especially funny. "Is that your priority?"

"A man needs to know how to thrive."

"So you are...studying the Inquisition's commander academically?"

Dorian gave a dramatic shrug. "You offered me your company in that cave and never followed through. I shouldn't limit my options."

The morose tone of the camp seemed almost too much then, as the refugees hid and huddled in the tents and around the fires. It seemed unfair to fall be chained to it, to be leashed to the despair they were all so certain of. Luin thought back to Dorian's yelp in the cavern tunnel, the way he clutched at Luin like his last hope. He sniggered despite himself, and turned away from the reproachful look of the revered mother on the other side of the fire.

"See? That's a little more like it." A weary but warm smile spread across Dorian's face.

"When the shadow of death drapes around us again I will remember your frightened howl to resist its call." He laughed again when Dorian's smile shifted to a pout.

"Why does that encounter become more and more obscene each time you reflect on it?"

Luindir only offered him a smile.

The light shift in mood between them wasn't fated to last. The Seeker's voice rang out across the camp calling for a healer as she trudged over the hill path. The commander was next, shouldering a body as Kiaran lit the way down the path with a ball of light between her hands. An arm on the body flickered green.

Luin left Dorian without a word, pressing ahead of the exhausted crowd to meet the healers with their stretcher. When the commander set Aedhin down against it, his skin was near purple with cold and a frozen, chunked swath of blood framed the right side of his face, completely obscuring his ear and jaw. The skin of his eyelids were swollen and frostbitten to the lashes and most of the metal plates on his coat had been torn off or broken. If not for his chestplate and the surging energy of his left arm, Luin never would have recognized him. Kiaran watched them secure him to the stretcher with a hollow expression, small hands pinched into the Commander's mantle like she might lose her way if she let go.

Frosted blood across Aedhin's thighs revealed a series of Fade-poisoned slashes, and the remaining dagger strapped to his shoulder fell from the sheath in pieces.

"I was second to my clan," Luin explained to Minaeve as she tried to block him from the tent where they took Aedhin away. "Allow me to treat the wound on his head. I've more power than any of you to close it... _please_ , _lethallin_." He couldn't understand the tired, distrustful look she gave him, but after a moment's thought and Mother Giselle's pleading beside her she let him in. Aside from the muttered prayers to their Maker to help Aedhin through, the healers worked silently to warm him and dress the wounds.

Luin kept his fingers near Aedhin's right ear even as the ice melted away in a watery red puddle at Luin's knees. With his left hand he batted away a woman who went to wipe at Aedhin's ear.

"You'll worsen the fracture," he hissed, "I've done this before."

When she backed off, Luin took the last lyrium potion from his belt with his free hand and brought it to his lips. The blue-white glow of his right hand lit with renewed energy. He glanced over to one of the Tranquil mages he recognized from Redcliffe handing out bandages and draughts. At his intrusion, Luin realized Kiaran's absence and if she was being kept away from assisting on purpose.

"I'll need at least two more lyrium potions, maybe three," he called with a strained voice once the man caught his gaze. "I cannot stop this spell until his skull hardens again." Suddenly looking sick and fearful, the man nodded and stumbled out. The others in the tent looked at him with a horrified stare, except for Solas, who had both hands wrapped around Aedhin's crackling and surging left arm, eyes half-closed in concentration.

Eventually the two elves were the only ones remaining, with the alchemist Adan supervising from the corner, broken leg propped up in front of him.

"You believe he'll live?" Solas asked, as Luin blinked back the fatigue to focus the energy building through his hand. Two more bottles sat empty on the ground next to him, and two full next to those.

"He'll live," Luin confirmed, "He just may not be the man we left behind."

To this, Solas nodded and looked back down at Aedhin. "No. He is not."

Dawn broke over the valley when the flap to the tent opened. Adan left on his crutch as Mother Giselle took his place, and Solas excused himself with a murmur and a promise that the mark would sleep for hours yet. Mother Giselle's eyes fell to Luin's hand, still glowing bright blue next to Aedhin's head wound. She knelt next to him and gently pulled open Aedhin's left eyelid, shielding it from the light with her other hand.

"Is it possible to wrap his eyes now?" she asked, peering over where the scars tightened from temple to ear. "The snow blindness may yet heal, but he cannot look in the light for some time."

"I'd like to do this for another hour, maybe two," Luin said, though his voice and his fingers shook. "To be sure the swelling is down and the bone is solid."

"That is an impressive power," the mother remarked, and sat back on her heels. "I am both grateful and saddened you have experienced this before. Your people must miss you dearly."

Luin gave a small, almost-shrug. "The cliffs bordering Wycome's sea border are sheer and dangerous. They are unforgiving to the curious." And unfriendly to the dishonest. The untrained hands of a fifteen-year-old boy weren't enough to close the rest of the wounds, and his friend never managed to draw a bow the same way again.

It wasn't long after the sun peaked at midday that Kiaran stepped into the protection of the tent, looking haggard and ill with swollen eyes and red cheeks. She tucked into the other side of her brother, taking his left hand into both of her smaller hands and pressing it to her chest. Luin half dozed at the side of the tent with his arms crossed, watching her through heavy eyelids as she whispered something to her brother. A prayer, maybe. The revered mother carefully draped a dark cloth over Aedhin's eyes and encouraged Luin to sleep with a promise of waking him if Aedhin stirred.

He heard the rustling of the tent flap after she said something to Kiaran, and let his shoulders drop more to doze off.

"Luin?"

Kiaran's hoarse whisper broke him from the lull of his nap and he opened one eye to acknowledge her.

"Yes, da'len?"

One hand was still holding her brother's under the blanket. The other she held in front of her, where small wisps of blue lit and faded from her fingertips. He realized that while she could sew a gash shut and knew plenty about herbs and poultices, he'd never seen her heal.

"If it's not too much trouble, I..." Hastily she rubbed at her eyes again. "I-it's not that I haven't read how, but I don't understand...I was never good at...before I left the Circle."

"Ah." Luin closed both eyes again. "Yes. I can try to instruct you." He shifted a little and cracked his neck. "You might ask Dorian, too. He's rather resourceful." She said nothing more, and when Mother Giselle's humming filled the tent again, he dozed off in his corner to dream of sunlit greenery and crystal eyes bright with admiration as he wove flame and ice in a dance around his fingers.

 

* * *

 

Aedhin managed to stand long enough to tell them both to stop their shouting before he reached for his sister's support. With one arm leaning on her tiny shoulders and the other gripping a quarterstaff, he stood amongst the crowd with his lips twisted in a furious snarl. A black bandage and a hood protected his eyes and his head, but his voice carried as clear as the day across the desolate camp. Cassandra and Cullen both silenced. Josephine pursed her lips.

Even wounded and barely able to move, he carried himself with a grace that could only have been given from the Maker.

He was right, of course. The shouting gave the Inquisition nothing but distress.

She could only guess for Cullen, but Cassandra hadn't rested more than a couple of hours since they fled Haven with the avalanche at their heels. Josephine had slept if only to keep herself together, and only with Leliana's assurance that she would be called upon immediately when the two warriors came to a decision on where to go next.

Solas and Luin both cautioned Josephine and Leliana against the mounting bad news they collected since the fall of Haven.

"He needs rest and isolation," the dalish elf warned, "Which he's received none of. A head wound does not disappear when the scar closes."

Josephine heard this particular edge in Aedhin's voice many times over since the first excursion to the Hinterlands --that biting, dominating anger characteristic of his father when he was challenged. When they were younger, she never thought it possible in him. The sound was unfamiliar to begin with, but now it made the air around him thick with rage and pain. He flinched at her touch when she reached for his hand and his waking moments on the journey were filled with a barely-controlled temper. Eventually he announced to them on the third night, still blind and aching, that his sister would be making decisions for the Inquisition in the interim for his recovery.

No one was more scandalized or horrified at this declaration than Kiaran herself, more so when her brother crumpled suddenly against Cullen and almost fell into the campfire, unconscious and flushed with fever.

Kiaran stared between the four of them after with open-mouthed disbelief and with a panicked, squeaky voice, said that shelter should be their first priority and that she'd continue to follow Solas' lead through the Frostbacks.

The first night in Skyhold's walls blessed them with a clear sky dotted with stars and aurora. The mild weather persisted until Cullen's soldiers cleared the worst of the debris and reconstruction began. Kiaran shied away from the responsibility as the colour returned to Aedhin's face, and they each found their nook within the castle. To better let the wounds breathe, Aedhin acquiesced to Luindir's recommendation to shave his head and on both sides now was a close-cropped undercut, contrasted to a mess of thick almost-waves at the top, which Aedhin was constantly trying to set.

And then she watched from the courtyard as Aedhin ascended Skyhold's main stairway on Kiaran's arm. Even with the black silk and leather clasped tightly over his eyes, he turned to the crowd with sword in hand and an ease in his shoulders. Josephine let go of a breath she was sure she'd been holding since they found him in the valley, and felt a sense of warmth and relief as his cool confidence rang out over the cheers. Then a ghost of that charming smile tugged at the side of his mouth as he addressed them all as Inquisitor, and Cullen rallied the cheers around them.

Midway through Varric's explanation in the broken hall above, he blacked out again, toppling his sister in the process.

He was not in his room hours later when she went to check in on him.

Josephine found Aedhin seated on a broken bench inside of the tiny garden room housing the statue of Andraste. A single candle flickered on the floor next to it. The blindfold was clenched in one hand, and though the skin of his face had healed to a mild rash, the whites of his eyes were still blood-coloured and strained. On the right, his eye was more grey than green, the pupil blown wide.

But his gaze was calm and reverent, locked on the face of the statue. Josephine dropped her hood behind her shoulders and sat next to him.

"Inqui--"

"No." He shook his head. "Please..."

"Aedhin," she corrected gently, and reached for his hand. His fingers closed around hers tightly. He let the blindfold drop to his lap and reached for her with the other hand. He fumbled at first before setting with both hands around hers in his lap.

His eyes searched for her but they stared without focus.

"I can't see the look on your face," he said with a hollow chuckle, "But stop worrying."

"Aedhin Trevelyan, I can no more stop my worry than you can stop getting into trouble," she told him, with a hint of laughter, and reached across to settle her hand on his cheek. He closed his eyes and turned into her touch.

"Sometimes, you say things that remind me of her," he said, and brought one hand up over hers as he turned to kiss her palm. "You make this whole awful mess feel like home again. I haven't felt home in a long time."

Her heart thundered in her chest at his sudden affection, the warmth of his dry lips against her palm, and the low murmur in his voice. She found herself unable to think of a reply, feeling suddenly very hot and unable to process more than a few words at a time as he kept speaking.Those later years, she often wondered, but, her mother's warning was clear...

"...demon said I'd hurt you, but I'd never," he promised, leaning in with his hands still locked on hers. He pressed kisses down the length of her wrist until her shirt-cuff stopped him. When Aedhin opened his eyes again, he still looked unseeing toward her and after a thick swallow and a shaking, shallow breath, she tilted his chin to face her. Aedhin's shoulders shook with his breaths, and she felt a wave of dizzy anticiption to realize he was nervous, too.

His grip on her hand near his knee tightened. Desperation. Fear crinkled the corners of his eyes and furrowed his brow. He leaned closer to press his forehead to hers, exhaled as their noses touched.

"Josephine--"

"Josie," she breathed, half-whispered. The tips of her ears tingled and burned.

"Josie," he repeated. "We're both sober this time. Promise me you'll tell me to stop, if I cross the line you set."

"You need to rest," she blurted, averting her own gaze to the floor. Aedhin let go of her hands.

"That's promise enough," he murmured, pulling back from her with an unhappy ring in his voice. "I shouldn't impress myself on you, but I realized then that I...that you...I'm sor--"

Josephine would remember her heart both stopped and resurrected as she tugged him toward her, and gave a soft giggle as their teeth knocked in the kiss. Aedhin circled his arms around her and pulled her forward onto his lap in a crushing embrace. He broke from her lips and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

"Thank Andraste you made it out," he whispered, the shake and quiver of desperation in his voice.

She wrapped her arms around him, fingers coming to stroke soothingly at the back of his neck.

"We both did," was all she said. He gave a silent nod, squeezed her tighter, murmuring the Chant into her hood and as she pressed her lips to the scar that bloomed across the side of his head. The tears did not spill from her eyes, nor did he cry from his, and both their hands were numb with chill when the candle finally guttered out. 

Her heart felt bruised when they finally separated.

A moonless night shone over Skyhold, and she watched him ascend with great pain toward his room, wondering why, in the echo of his confession, that she felt weighted instead of light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could lie and say I'm sorry but...
> 
> This game could have had infinitely more interesting second-half battle dynamics with long-term or permanent injuries from the avalanche at Haven.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But the blindness wasn't the worst of it, and neither was the now constant tired ache in his left arm.

Mother Giselle and the other healers - Luindir included - insisted to Aedhin the snow blindness would fade in two weeks with adequate rest and a cover over his eyes. After five weeks, the world was only slightly unfocused on the left side.With enough concentration and soft light, he could read, and even with a sun-veiling hood, he could deflect Cassandra's sword swinging toward him in the training yard. If she came from the left.

Dark grey haze and barely-discernible shadow was all that came from the right.

Luin expressed his apologies for not saving the eye.

But the blindness wasn't the worst of it, and neither was the now constant tired ache in his left arm.

Initially the migraine was all-consuming. When he woke, when he slept, when he moved too quickly or tried too hard to understand what someone was trying to explain. Once, unable to express his irritation at the fast pace of conversation, he lost his temper in the War Room and began shouting in a mix of broken Orlesian and the trader's common.

It was Josephine that eventually settled him with soft reassurances and her cold hands gently pressed against his ears.

Cullen was the one to tell him that incident --Aedhin couldn't recall more beyond stepping into the room and leaving to sink into the chair in Josephine's office.

He didn't remember anything of the journey to the fortress nor the nearly routine blackouts after he'd done any decent climb or ascension of Skyhold's many massive stairways. Even Corypheus was a hazy recollection in his conscious hours, bits and pieces of conversation and a brilliant, sickening power. And when he tried too hard to read the missives and the letters, the pain erupted first from the strain in his left eye until it spread across his forehead to the scars on the opposite temple.

Each night Kiaran came to him after dark with frozen plants and chilled poultices.

Sometimes, they soothed. Others felt like fire joining the hammer that pounded against his skull. _This must be what it means to die_ , he thought in despair, once after snapping at her and then collapsing half conscious over her shoulder.

Now six weeks after Wintersend, the migraine was no better, but its presence was less frequent.

In the absence of his full vision, Aedhin became an unwilling expert in his advisors' nervous ticks at the war table. Cullen's shuffling never irritated him before, but the scuffing of his toes on the stone scraped at Aedhin's every last, frayed nerve. Josephine tapped the back of her quill against her writing board, albeit quieter than Cullen's pacing as he spoke. Leliana, bless her, was the stillest of them all, but that didn't stop Aedhin from catching her as she fiddled with the buttons of her gloves.

These decision-making meetings were a whole new challenge now.

The window in the war room was blessedly flanked by courtyard walls, and so long as they never met in mid-morning, he could endure an hour or two of looking at the map before the light triggered another pounding headache.

"You'll be taking Cassandra with you, I presume?" Cullen's voice called back Aedhin's attention.

"Cassandra...and Luin and Dorian," Aedhin replied. "They're the quickest."

"You should not be traveling at all while you recover," chided Josephine. Aedhin leaned over the table with both palms down, head hanging as he drew a breath.

"I'm _recovered_ enough. Between the rifts and the undead, there's no one else," he said slowly, both eyes shut. "I need the Grand Duke's support to get into the Winter Palace. Personally winning the favour of his generals will take us a long way."

He might have missed her displeased exhale in the past, but he heard it as if she were breathing right next to his ear. He opened his eyes again to stare down at the stretch of vellum in front of them, squinting at a blue marker on the far southwestern tip of the plains.

"What is this?" He tapped his finger on it.

"An old elven ruin." Leliana walked closer. "My agents have picked up implication that the Venatori are hunting old artefacts and structures across Thedas. I thought it might be worth investigating once we have a foothold in the region."

The power Corypheus wielded once belonged to the elves, according to Solas. He wasn't sure if the spymaster overheard _that_ particular conversation, or if her instinct was just that good, but if Corpyheus was collecting old magic for his cause, better it to be archived and studied with the Inquisition. He hoped what Solas shared did not become common knowledge --already in Orlais and the Marches, the alienages faced constant abuse and terrorism. He'd seen little of them so far in Ferelden, but that didn't mean the situation was different. Which brought him to the next pressing issue...

"What did your delegate send back about Wycome and Hercinia?"

A pained sigh.

"That everything seems to be in order, but we've had some trouble getting in touch with Lord Ancallum," she said, "He left some weeks ago for your uncle's home in Markham and hasn't been heard from yet. But my associate assures me that everything is smoothing out for the Inquisition in the Free Marches, and we should have reliable support from the coast cities in addition to Kirkwall very soon."

"And the elves?"

"Apparently it was a misunderstanding about misplaced property, which has since been recovered from the countess' second house in the countryside."

"If you're not happy with his supply of information, have Leliana send someone to verify." Aedhin inclined his head to Josephine, but at that distance, she was a haze of gold and bronze behind the flicker of a candle. Trying to focus on her eyes brought a sharp flash of pain through the side of his skull, but he attempted a warming smile for her nonetheless.

"While I'm away in Orlais, I'll leave delegating with the Marchers to you."

There was a long moment of blessed, unreadable silence as no one moved, and then Cullen cleared his throat.

"We still have to address King Alistair's concerns in Ferelden."

"Which are?" Aedhin was sure they discussed this before, but all he could remember about Ferelden was something about Red Templars and memorials for Haven. To his credit, Cullen did not show his frustration.

"In addition to investigating Therinfal a second time, the King is reasonably convinced there are Venatori operating within Denerim--"

"I will send Alistair agents to smoke them out," Leliana interrupted, "We may stand better chance of prisoners to interrogate this way."

"And send the Chargers to Therinfal," Aedhin added, "With two armies between the Exalted Plains and in the Emerald Graves, I'll feel more confident with the better percentage of our forces behind us in Orlais."

Cullen's gauntlets made the slightest grate against his chestplate as he crossed them. "That's a sound judgement. Chevaliers speak plainly in terms of honour and deed. There is no better way to gain the support of Orlais' people than through their esteemed defenders. Better still to stand with them."

"That does not mean they do not still play the Game," warned Josephine.

Aedhin gave another tired nod. "That's why I'm bringing Dorian."

A snort from both Leliana and Cullen, though the commander politely covered his with a cough. When no one brought anything else forward, Aedhin stood straight and excused himself, following the bright hallway back into the main keep with his hand trailing the wall.

 

* * *

 

The first days in Skyhold proved to feel far more limiting than those in Haven. The winter was brutal in the night, howling hard and heavy with sleet, only to warm and thaw in the sun. Her brother wandered with ablindfold over both eyes at first, and it became a habit to avoid looking for him before dark. Even then, they barely spoke, and instead of reading as she liked, Kiaran spent the nights pressing frozen compresses to her brother's pulsing temples and pretended not to notice the intensity of pain he suffered.

She also learned in those early weeks in the fortress that when Dorian had to fight for attention, he won. Whether it was to slide in next to her at the long table for meals or simply badgering everyone in the room to laugh or cringe, he had a marvelous talent for being the epicentre of wherever he was. Much like Vivienne, when they weren't snarling at each other, the Tevinter man had a knack for pointing out precisely the weaknesses in each person he came across. Kiaran included, perhaps more in competition when she tried to assert time alone with Luindir. It didn't take her long to realize Dorian gravitated to the same spaces as the Dalish mage, but it stung all the same when the former First Enchanter laughed behind her wine glass and recommended Kiaran a book on subtlety.

Whatever happened between Dorian and Luin since she'd fled Redcliffe with Aedhin, it changed Luin, and he was more inclined to tuck into the library corners with the Tevinter than address her questions. Maybe she hated more that Dorian was actually a lot of fun, when he was provoking somebody else.

The entitlement was stupid, she'd told herself that a dozen times.

Yet here she was, shuffling in the half-plotted garden trying to look casual while he wove elfroot plants into the soil with Dalish magic.

"You never used spells like this before," she said, crouching, wrapping arms around her knees.

Luin withdrew his hands from the earth before he spoke. "It's very taxing," he replied slowly, eyes on the ground in front of him. "And I am not inclined to share this particular part of my people with others. But the injured can recover, and supplies are still arriving delayed. It is the right thing to do."

She didn't have anything to add to that. "I know a lot about working with cuttings, but not how to grow them."

"You've been on the move for a number of years." Luin's gentle smile, that calmed her months ago, felt cutting now. "I doubt you've been given much opportunity to tend soil anywhere." He wiped his dirty hands on his trousers and stood. He offered his hand to her.

After a second's contemplation she reached back. He helped her up and then turned to glance at the sun. "Almost midday. The Inquisitor will have retired for the afternoon?"

"I don't run Aedhin's schedule," she said, "But probably, since you leave tomorrow." It felt strange to call him by title, and she did in front of Josephine and the soldiers, when she caught them watching, listening. But when she asked Aedhin about the ceremony, and if he really believed this was Andraste's will, he simply gave her a blank quirk of a smile and retired to sleep.

"Did Corypheus take something from him?" she asked.

Luin paused midstep, and his smile thinned. "The monster? No, I don't think so." Another pause. "I'm sure with enough rest he'll be back to teasing you and laughing with the others."

The Tevinter's voice rang across the courtyard. "Luindir!" He had a book in hand and waved with a sharp grin, dressed in fitted leather and silk.

Kiaran set her jaw. Again with his perfect timing.

"Would you care to join us?" Luin lifted both brows in invitation. "You have a good eye for details. You might notice something we haven't."

"Maybe later." She glanced at Dorian, who sidestepped the dirt for the cobblestones. "I'll check with the surgeon first to see if I can help." Kiaran turned for the rampart stairs before either could address her again. This entitlement was stupid, Kiaran repeated to herself.

She barely rounded the corner when a soft voice spoke from a half-step behind her, startling her.

"It's never what I thought, always temporary, like a shadow or a reflection, speaking and seen, but no one sees, would it be different, would they see him if it had been me instead?"

"Cole."

He continued. "You pretend like it doesn't hurt because it was only a few weeks. A few weeks, a few months, your chapters are always in fews after they stopped being twos."

She glanced back at him with a frown and then shook her head before continuing through the corner tower. Cole waited on the ledge on the other side.

"I don't think it's silly," he added, "And I can see you just fine. Not the candle, or the eruption, it hurts--"

"That's enough," she said softly, wrapping her arms around her middle as a gust of wind blew across the ramparts. "I don't want your help right now." With spirits, it was better to be direct --Cole especially, responded better with the shortest route laid in front of him. He was too smart, too aware of the loopholes between what people said and what they meant.

"Are you sure?" He tilted his head just slightly, halting  with one foot hanging along the stone ledge.

"Very."

"He's being pulled in two places," Cole answered before she could ask about Aedhin, "And both answers are wrong. He's leaving again, thinks if he runs far enough to the other side that Envy can't find him. Envy is already gone."

He stopped as she put up her hand. A guard rounded them both, giving her a polite nod and an unsure glance in Cole's direction. Once he passed down the stairs Kiaran put her hands back into the pockets of her skirt.

"Try not to bring up the demons near them."

"You are thoughtful." It was the last thing he said before disappearing. A quick glance over the edge showed him approaching a woman pulling water from the well.

"It's not about them," she sighed, descending the stairs to the platform that shared the view of the garden. She told Aedhin that Cole warned her in Kirkwall. Cassandra had been more suspicious of the news, asking her about the Champion and if she'd been told by spirits where he might be. She didn't, but Kiaran regretted sharing the clinic story in the hills outside of Therinfal.

 _Apostate_.

Varric asked about healing artes during the climb, in earshot of the Seeker.

She said she didn't know, because she didn't, not really. But she could stitch tighter than she could write, and that was something she was proud of.

He put his finger on his chin, like he was trying to remember something, where they'd crossed before.

Luin, with all his amazing skill and gentle power, climbed at the front with her brother's horse, and could not rescue her from the conversation. She remembered the exact feel of the Tevinter's eyes on her. The first indication that his timing was always perfect, that he was sharper than he pretended beneath the childish boasting and complaining.

"Working a clinic and no healer's training? You must have been charming indeed," came his taunt, like he knew.

I wasn't brought there to heal, she'd almost shot back. Instead Kiaran chose sombre silence and shrugged instead, played it off like she hadn't focused on it in the Circle before she ran away.

Kiaran leaned forward on the broken stone with arms crossed and looked out into the spanse of mountains and snow that surrounded them. Months ago she sat in a tiny pilgrim village filled with refugees and soldiers and thought about running back to Kirkwall, or off to Orlais, once the Breach was sealed. Even if she still wanted to, she'd never make it to a city on her own from here. Even Sera refused to wander the mountain paths near the castle, and if _she_ felt lost, then Kiaran had no chance.

Besides, who would Josephine present in Aedhin's place when her guests came to marvel at the unkillable Inquisition?

Kiaran touched the blunted edges of her hair where she'd cut it all off in a fury after an argument about presentation. She couldn't stop the cocky victory smirk from spreading across her face despite her maudlin mood. If she was bound to this fortress for the foreseeable future, there was at least _that_.

A shadow passed over her and she glanced back behind her.

"History tells me I should be concerned if you're off by yourself with that look on your face." Aedhin settled with arms crossed next to her, hood pulled low over his face. A sheer, gauzy dark fabric hid his eyes. "What are you plotting?"

"Nothing yet, I'm waiting for you to leave." She still had a little bitterness over being left in the Frostbacks. By the light, restrained laugh in response, Kiaran assumed his headache was starting.

"If you push my commander or my ambassador to resign I'm going to be very cross."

"Hasn't worked yet," she teased, turning. "You still address her by _ambassador_?"

"Shout my secrets to the mountains why don't you." When Aedhin reached across to tousel her hair, she didn't duck, but batted his palm almost as soon as he touched her.

"But yes, she insists."

For a moment, both were quiet, and Kiaran wrapped her arms around herself again.

"Did you tell Varric?" she asked.

"Absolutely not." Aedhin tapped his fingers on the stone. "But speaking of, his contact should arrive while we're gone. Can you help him keep this guy in the shadow? He seems to think another refugee will end up causing a lot of fuss."

"Cities, Aedhin. I said cities, not fortresses. I escaped from the Gallows, I wasn't hiding inside of it." She sighed, wondered what part of Kirkwall's dirty underbelly Varric knew this person from. Wondered if this contact was someone she worked for in the past. "But I can try."

More quiet pressed as Aedhin fell into his thoughts, rubbing absently at his left wrist.

"I wrote to Lochlan asking for some research volumes Dorian suggested," he said, but avoided turning toward her. "I imagine the revered mother may object."

"Now you want me to hide your illegal books too?"

"I want you to read them." Rather than teasing, the hollow, serious tone that coloured him so much lately rang through his voice. "Along with Varric and his friend. Any weakness we can exploit from Corypheus...if anyone can find it, you will."

She hummed a small sound in reply, not sure what he wanted to hear from her.

"Don't die in Orlais. Mother would never forgive you. She hated the far south."

He laughed. "I won't die. Cassandra will be with me."

"Don't encourage her to kill you, either." Unspoken, but she hoped he understood how much she never wanted to own the decisions for the Inquisition again, whether by his delegation or otherwise.

"When do you ride out?"

Aedhin rolled his shoulders as he stood straight. "A few hours before sunrise." His lips turned into a grin. "You'll still be having dinner with Cullen at that time?"

He couldn't see her flush but she turned away all the same. "No."

"Oh, I've completely misheard the talk circulating between the kitchen staff and our local ghost then."

"Definitely. Turns out you're blind _and_ deaf."

He patted her shoulder with a shake of his head, only once before his hand found the broken inner balustrade and he guided himself back to the stairs. "I'll come say goodbye before we leave."

She watched him descend, shoulders straight and steps confident.

Cole sat next to her, kicking his feet back and forth against the stone. "A few more minutes. Do you feel better?"

Kiaran folded her arms, gave him only one look before she walked off in the direction opposite of Aedhin, leaving the spirit alone on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize HUGELY for the massive delay between chapters. I underestimated changes with work and how much it would take out of me transitioning from the holiday rush.
> 
> With respect to that, updates will likely be more 1x to 2x a month, instead of each week, at least until I get used to my new workload.
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments and the kudos. It warms my heart every time I see a notification for them!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The layers of sturdy fabric and metal and leather made Dorian all the more homesick for Tevinter's hot, balmy weather and its fashions of silk and light cotton. He missed exposed shoulders and navels and contrast of white and black under the sun, delicate embroidery shimmering with enchantment, glimmering jewels and gauzy chains, and a thousand impossibly tiny hooked clasps to keep curious hands busy.

A year past, if one were to quiz Dorian Pavus on his piety, he'd have laughed and instead rolled a story about why he was not, as if he were sharing a family secret. To say that the events between Redcliffe and Haven changed him was a vast simplification.

Watching a man come back from the dead unaided perhaps did that to a fellow. Moreso after outrunning a vastly powerful magister, a dragon, and Ferelden's strongest force of nature: the snow. Never mind that, but somehow through a nearly neverending nosebleed and partial blindness, closed four rifts and managed to wrangle a fraction of Orlesian nobility to his side and out of their foolish war in the Dales.

It was not inaccurate to say that Inquisitor Trevelyan frightened him, at least a little. If he were asked - and he was not, but if he were - he much preferred to be near the spitfire little sister and her furious, jealous stares.

In the weeks following the discovery of the fortress, Dorian had written no less than three dozen letters to old colleagues and contacts he'd made on the way south from Minrathous. A charming runaway slave in Nevarra was his proxy for Maevaris, but she'd yet to forward him any replies. Looking for answers, the history of Corypheus, what the situation with the Venatori looked like back home. Something, anything. Luin wrote to his clan, but the rumour from the rookery was trouble again near the Green Dales and they'd sent information of little value regarding Corypheus or the strange power he carried.

And let no one ask him how he felt about the Inquisition's paltry library. For such a thorough spymaster and esteemed First Enchanter, they seemed incapable of acquiring even the least offensive of the Chantry's banned literature. He couldn't recall how many useless books he'd read cover to cover looking for an answer, but he did have a shelf of gleaming red and brown wine bottles near fully emptied to fill the long, cold nights he and Luin spent bent over the table drawing between maps and personal accounts collected between scouts and their own few contacts.

The Inquisition was at least blessed with an uneasy silence: no Venatori, no sign of Corypheus besides a few scavengers digging around old ruins. The Dalish in the plains had been helpful, for the most part, and Luin brokered a relationship with them for the Inquisition in exchange for supplies.

On the last day of their return journey, the sun rose early. He'd barely drifted off, back pressed to Luin's in a tent crowded with supplies. He did not mind the company as much as he minded the crates.

"Maferath, there's no rest anywhere," he muttered as he sat up, scrubbing a hand down his face. The tip of his nose was still chapped from the sun and the wind, and three days without any moving water to shave left his face rough and itching. As a child he'd never been one to dream of adventures, or chasing desires in the untouched wilds. This must have been why. His younger self  _knew._

Traveling with the party  seemed strange. He never expected any welcome, let alone a warm one, but the Inquisitor had insisted. Though they'd met but briefly in Redcliffe, the man offered an open palm in trust when he requested Dorian assist in the Exalted Plains. The Seeker regarded Dorian with an open ire, but among their Circle mages and apostates, Dorian was the only one among the Inquisition with any necromancy experience. The dead walked the Plains, once a part of the Dales, and though the Veil was thin under the weight of so many battles, it was more strange and unlikely to have so many bodies and spirits raging so wholly against the living. Not in the Exalted Plains, where the environment provided little in preservation for corpses left to bake under the gaze of the sun.

Dorian's expertise lived more in the realm of binding spirits to their innate purposes or talents, but he supposed like most Southerners, the Inquisitor understood all death magic to be painted with the same brush, and that all of its origins were steeped somewhere under the tragic, tawdry veil of blood summons. This had been as good an opportunity as any to define the separation, at least, and any excuse to be separated from the hovering presence of the quietly opinionated Revered Mother. Dorian might even admit how he chose to be more exuberant with unravelling the magic in the ramparts than necessary.

Then there were the haunted elven ruins they diverted to. He was less flashy and far more focused with the arcane horrors that came for them there.

Luin was slower, but less clumsy to move beside him, and he pushed back what had been his injured shoulder with a pop. "You did not sleep well, either," Luin remarked, voice thick, light eyes tinged red at the corners.

Dorian sneered down at the lumps through the worn linen rug that served as a cushion beneath their bedrolls. "The Hinterlands were cold, but at least the earth was even," he replied, smoothed his hands through his hair in an attempt to put himself back together. The Seeker seemed the type to be irritated by a man always well composed, and she hadn't seen Dorian disheveled yet. He couldn't let her down.

"There are a few less abandoned homes to borrow for the evening," Luin agreed, and took a leather cord from his pocket to twist his hair into a knot at the top of his head. Dorian watched him as he did, eyes still drooping shut and head pounding at the squawking and shrieking of birds chasing prey in the distance. Even without a mirror, Luin tied off the cord in a perfect, intricate double-knot. Artists,  _honestly_.

He caught Dorian's stare, and lifted his brows in question.

Dorian glanced aside. "You'll be sunburnt again."

A small huff, not quite a sigh, nor a laugh, as Luin moved onto his knees to dress for the day.

"I rather miss warmth, even if here lacks the humidity," he said, tugging his shirt over his head. "Did you cross through the Green Dales to the west when you came south?"

"Certainly not. That sounds like a lot of wildlife and not a lot of wine."

To this, Luin did laugh, a weary and gravelly sound, and asked no more. They dressed in silence, and Dorian thought back to that morning in the Hinterlands where he'd almost left the elf behind.

He glanced over his shoulder as Luin closed buttons on his wrists with his teeth.

In another context, Dorian might have liked to prod him about it. He kept the remark to himself.

A distance away, Trevelyan's laughter rang out --teasing the Seeker no doubt. Dorian watched as Luin inclined his head slightly to listen, mindlessly lacing shut his own coat. The Inquisition had outfitted them in better armour, both of their coats fitted with double-stitched, hardened leathe, plated with steel at the shoulders, and scale at the elbows and wrists. Dorian had meant to correct the Inquisitor and the requisitions officer both --armour hadn't stopped the demon in Redcliffe castle from cutting through Luin's flesh, nor had it kept an abomination's primal magic from tearing through Dorian's middle as they tried to warn Haven in time.

If he could be so bold - and he wasn't, not in front of the Seeker anyway - he'd much rather take his chances with a barrier. The layers of sturdy fabric and metal and leather made Dorian all the more homesick for Tevinter's hot, balmy weather and its fashions of silk and light cotton. He missed exposed shoulders and navels and contrast of white and black under the sun, delicate embroidery shimmering with enchantment, glimmering jewels and gauzy chains, and a thousand impossibly tiny hooked clasps to keep curious hands busy--

Thin fingers grasped his arm.

Dorian looked up from his thoughts with a mildly entertained smirk in place. "Yes?" He tried not to let it crack when Luin regarded him with a stoic concern, and opened his other palm to reveal a small metal vial.

"Given Scout Harding's warnings before we left the ruins of Dirthamen," Luin said slowly, "Neither of us can afford to be distracted. The Inquisitor's health may not hold after all these confrontations, and it will be unwise to stop long as we pass through the mountains." Luin nodded down to the vial. "This will revive your energy for a while, at least."

Dorian opened his hand to accept as he opened his mouth to object, but Luin dropped it into his palm and exited the tent. He hesitated only a moment before drinking it back. It was unbearably sweet with a sharp aftertaste. Some kind of potion that the Dalish knew to brew? And when had he brewed it? Dorian tucked the vial away in his pocket, and found that he didn't feel quite so torturously exhausted, even if his back still ached and the stubble on his chin itched something fierce.

When he stepped out into the sun, he was not acknowledged again by his companion, but was met by the tired, cheery smile of the Inquisitor and the Seeker's endless suspicion. Dorian grinned brightly in turn as he slung his staff across his back. Trevelyan looked worn, for his part, and even without the cowl hanging over him the dark circles under his eyes looked nearly black.

Luin was mid-greeting to the other two, when he stopped, and glanced around them with eyes narrowed, one hand reaching for an arrow.

"I'll return shortly," he muttered, "Do not follow." He disappeared into the trees, Dorian frowned between the Seeker and the Inquisitor before he turned on his heel and pursued after Luin.

"You are not going anywhere," threatened Cassandra, with a pointed look at the Inquisitor. "You will stay where we can protect you." He looked at first like he might argue, but then raised both arms in defeat. As Luin predicted. Trevelyan's few days of good health were not meant to last.

When Dorian found his companion, he'd already let the arrow fly loose.

A shadow twitched out of the way as the arrow thunking into the tree, and dropped down to the ground. The sound of their feet hitting earth came after they launched forward, a glint of steel flashing in the morning light.

Luin parried the strike with the metal of his bracer, tossing the bow behind him in favour of the dagger strapped to his hip. The two clashed, but the movements were fluid, almost like they'd done this before, and Luin almost looked irritated before finally knocking the assailant's wrist, sending the blade flying.

The attacker was faster, and barely had dropped beneath the elf's next strike than had him on his back on the ground, arms pinned by their knees and another thin blade pressed to his throat.

Lighting already flickered in Dorian's hands as he ran to intervene, but Luin hissed out, "Dorian, stay out of this!"

The cowl fell back, revealing an elf with dark hair and a snarl on her face.

"It's been easy enough, has it?" Her shout rang across the clearing, accented voice brutally emphasizing every word. " _Ma ha'lam'shirem--_!"

"Aerinthea!" Dorian paled at the name, as Luin freed one arm to grip at the fist holding the knife, eyes slitted with the same murderous ice that haunted Dorian's nightmares of Redcliffe and tainted lyrium.

"La'var vis--"

She drove her other elbow down into his chest, shouted over him, "--ane  _ga din_!"

Dorian could feel the silence, the air that left Luin's lungs and how he instantly released his grip on the woman's wrist. By then, Cassandra and Trevelyan made their way into the clearing, with weapons drawn. Whatever she'd said to him, he was white as a sheet, and Dorian put up both hands to keep the other two from coming closer. The Seeker's lip curled in defiance, but she held her ground with sword drawn and shield ready.

Aerinthea pulled herself off him then and stood, dusting herself off and sliding the knife back into her belt. " _All_  of them. Do you remember the last time I saw that much blood?"

Luin got to his feet, eyes wide, and Dorian didn't stay back this time--

\--before he realized he'd moved, he was right there next to Luin, helping the elf to stand. He held one hand on his back, fingers enveloped in healing light until the cut on his throat sealed shut. If Luin noticed, he gave no indictation, but he nudged Dorian behind him.

"You're lying, Aerin."

"Ask your Inquisitor. He can tell you all about how Wycome painted its city in more Dalish blood than Perivantium ever could." Her eyes, dark blue, near black, looked past Luin and Dorian and toward Trevelyan, whose face was a tightly arranged, forced calm. Dorian remained stuck on Perivantium. What happened there? He looked between both elves, and thought about the altercation in the cavern. Guilt swelled, no matter how he tried to push back the thought.

Luin straightened his shoulders, and looked back.

Trevelyan sheathed both daggers and put both hands behind his back. At this gesture, Cassandra's posture tightened, but he stepped forward.

"I received a short summary missive last night from the runner who met us here at the camp," he said. "There weren't any clear details. I thought it more appropriate to discuss privately in Skyhold, with the ambassador."

Luin pursed his lips. Dorian suppressed a shudder, and swallowed back the twisted, hurting hollowness in his stomach.

"This woman has exactly two minutes more." Cassandra advanced forward. "To attack the Inquisitor's party means to suffer consequences."

Aerinthea lifted her chin as if in challenge, and though in height she barely made it past Dorian's shoulder, she seemed unbothered by the Seeker's threat. Instead, she looked back to Luin, a sneer curling on her face as he put himself between her and Dorian.

"And this Tevinter is your ally now?" she asked. "You left for that?"

"Why I left is no business of yours... _da'len_." The woman's eye twitched slightly at the name, but Luin stepped forward, mana crackling off his shoulders and fingertips. "What brings the Crows this far south?"

An icy smile breezed over her features, and then disappeared. "What Crows?"

It was then that Dorian noticed the tiny round pin in her hood, as she gestured to it with an open palm. He was too far away to see the engraving, but a glinting, deep knife-cut through the metal was more than obvious..

"I have been contracted by a better employer. The Crows and all their Tevinter runaways can burn. Hopefully, someplace I can follow the plume." Aerinthea walked forward, past Luin and Dorian, muttering, "Your Tevinter should watch in which bed he lies. He knows he is an expensive prize."

Dorian wished she'd turn around, just so he could say,  _Of course I am, have you looked at me?_  Anything to misdirect her attention.

Cassandra stepped fully in front of the Inquisitor. "That is close enough."

From her pocket, Aerinthea pulled a folded letter and held it out to them. "A peace offering to the Inquisitor. Your frivolous ambassador insisted."

The Seeker stepped back to allow him to take the paper. Trevelyan was silent and still as he read, eyes narrowing, the left eye twitching a little as he went over whatever was written. Cassandra, to her credit, was a dutiful bodyguard - she closed the space between herself and the elven woman almost immediately as he became engrossed in the page.

Dorian could give him that. To others, Trevelyan might be looking for deceit. He imagined the Inquisitor could barely discern the handwriting, one letter from another, based on the last few weeks --most things so far had gone straight to the Seeker's hands for approval.

"Is this supposed to be a threat?" he asked as he looked up.

"It is a good deal," she said, "The least you can do to repay us for what you let happen to Lavellan is to rid the world of this Tevinter, and in exchange for that support, the Coterie hunters coming after yours gain a permanent residence under the care of Kirkwall's guard." Aerinthea shrugged. "Barring that, I come recommended by an ally of the Nightingale and the Hero of Ferelden. You cannot afford to turn this down." When she angled herself so they all could see her, a wicked smile washed across her features, and her midnight eyes found Dorian's. "And I am very good at hunting magisters."

Luin dropped a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "Don't listen to her, if you can help it." He looked as if he were about to elaborate, and then dropped his chin to look at the ground. "...thank you. Again."

"I'd say we have a solid backup plan, at all times, given our poor luck," he replied, attempted to sound a little convincing.

Luin did not look back up from the earth, but instead mumbled under his breath, " _Mythal'enaste_."

Cassandra's raised voice cut through the clearing. "I do not trust this--"

"Cullen and Leliana have both signed off," came the tired reply, before he looked up to Aerinthea. "I trust there will be no more assaults on my circle?"

"My loyalty is to the Inquisition, for now." She crossed her arms again and tossed her head. "You can rest assured you have the advantage, and anyone carrying red lyrium or partnering with Tevinter  _will_  be found. I will show you, Inquisitor, how we enact our vengeance in the north."

She reached up to pull foward her hood.

"At the end Luindir, this was your fault. You should have intervened instead of letting some privileged shem girl act on our behalf." Aerinthea glanced back once to them, and Dorian stiffened to the near-boiling hatred in her stare through him.

"I hope your companions were worth the cost. You're a terrible gambler."

She walked away, back through the brush to the path, and disappeared through a thicket of trees. And then, the rustling that followed her ceased.

"Luin, listen--" Trevelyan began as he tucked the letter in his pocket. Dorian frowned, and Luin put up a hand.

"With all due respect, Inquisitor, what you have to say in explanation does not matter. I apologize for the disruption." He nodded back to the camp, where their soldiers were packing away the tents and equipment, face calm and eyes blank. "We should separate from the caravan and resume our journey." He avoided eye-contact with them and instead walked to where the horses were tethered.

When Luin was out of earshot, he turned to Dorian with eyebrows furrowed and shoulders tensed. "Should I..."

"He's asked to be left alone." Dorian put a careless headtoss into his shrug, and stepped away with a flourish. "If you want advice, that would be it. I don't know about you but a warm bed and a hot bath sound like a delightful distraction for us all. Let us be free of this monstrous camping trip sooner rather than later."

The hours of the journey stretched and stretched, with little conversation besides a little goading back and forth between himself and the Seeker. Maybe he stepped in too early, heard too much. Luin sat on his mount like a statue, barely moving, and only speaking to encourage the horse in his native tongue. He did not look back to Dorian, and his gaze never left the flickering scar across the heavens beyond them.

Stars peeked out through the sky with the fortress came into view, and torches burned brightly from the battlements. Dorian felt a prickle over his skin as they crossed the bridge, and when he glanced up, the elf stood at the end of the bridge with arms crossed, flanked on either side by Inquisition soldiers.

Trevelyan was surrounded almost as soon as they dismounted.

Dorian slid off of his horse, halfway through inviting Luin up to the library to drink when a shrill voice cut across the Inquisition's courtyard.

" _Babae_!"

A tiny shadow of a creature zipped past them, shoving Dorian aside at the knee to fling herself at Luin, who caught her with a wide-eyed and bewildered expression. The child burst into tears and clutched her tiny fists in his coat, wailing stumbling mix of languages into the fabric.

Luin dropped to his knees to pull her close and kiss the top of her head. "Shh, Nemy..."

Dorian opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

Aerinthea stepped past him and dropped a heavy locket to the dirt in front of Luin.

"Aerin, you lied--"

"Only her." She made for the stairs beyond them. "I wanted to watch you suffer."

"Aerin."

"Goodnight." She stormed off, and the wailing from the child muffled as Luin embraced her as close as he could.

Dorian stepped away, brisk in his search of the first open door that would lead him through the maze of the castle back to his room.

Whatever this family affair, he felt like an intruder upon it, and with the sensation of being watched with every step, fled the crowd and the confusion and the explanations to the familiar safety of books, smoke, and liquor.

Wherever the Fade beckoned his dreams tonight, he hoped for hot weather and isolation and quiet, empty space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the Writers of Thedas discord for helping me restructure this and finally get this chapter put together, after months of fighting with it. You guys are the real MVP.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the fifth time she'd met this particular wraith, and no matter how she tried to outrun it in the dream-shadow of Skyhold's halls, it always seemed to find where she hid. From what she understood among these encounters, it was some kind of demon of despair, but it never spoke.

Kiaran startled awake in a cold sweat with the taste of metal on her lips, and the sensation of cold fingers digging into her neck and shoulder. She choked back a sob with her hand over her mouth, squeezed shut her eyes, and counted her breaths until the feeling passed and the feeling of ice pressing into her ebbed away.

When she opened her eyes, it wasn't the underforge around her, but her room, where the seams of the stonework walls were frosted and cold fog clouded the windowpane.

Mana thrummed in her fingertips and she closed her aching, frozen hands into fists and clenched them until the ice around her disappeared.

The latch on the door was still snug in place, and light came through the curtain half-pulled at the window. None of the templars noticed the unconscious casting, then. As she sat straight in the chair, her spine and shoulders popped and groaned and she shook her head more than once to make sure this wasn't still the Fade. Kiaran rubbed her arms and pulled her thick cloak over herself, but a shudder echoed through her the same, the imprint of strange hands on her body still present. When she tried to rub warmth into the places the demon grabbed at her, she winced, and her fingertips passed over welts and bruises, more prominent than the nights prior. This was the fifth time she'd met this particular wraith, and no matter how she tried to outrun it in the dream-shadow of Skyhold's halls, it always seemed to find where she hid. From what she understood among these encounters, it was some kind of demon of despair, but it never spoke. 

It just chased and chased until it found her through the other side of the hidden passageways, and tried to crush her into the stonework of the castle. When it touched her, the magic fell silent in her hands and she was utterly alone. Screaming in the Fade did nothing either --if Solas walked near her dreamscape again, he did not hear her. Kiaran touched her throat, sore, raw, as if she'd been screaming here and not there.

She looked to the door, hopeful, but there was no note of summons from her brother waiting underneath.

Aedhin returned three days ago, and she still hadn't seen him.

To be fair, in the weeks since he left, she'd barely seen anyone except for the demons that came to ensnare her in her dreams. First, there was the gossip - Cole had a hand in sharing some of it with his rambling commentary about her thoughts and Cullen's whenever she parted with him - but also the general snickering around the keep of the Inquisitor's  _little_ sister and her secret affair with the Commander. The bruises on her neck did her no credit there. And second, there was the fear: of how an army of templars might assess her threat level, she kept the secret to herself and hoped on Andraste's pyre that Solas might wander across her again and offer some advice.

Rubbing her eyes, Kiaran looked where she'd managed to spread a scholarly mess across the entire inside of her little room above the garden. Magelights stuck to the walls, in the corners, and her desk was overrun with books opened and marked with the connections Aedhin had asked her to pick out.

And some of it, she couldn't read. Some Tevene words stuck out, things she'd learned as a child from grandparents and extended relatives at those tiring family summer parties, expressions that worked their way down from generation to generation, but the language here was much older...and sometimes the script itself made no sense, as if it were written in a codex on purpose. She left those books and documents in a stack for Dorian, whenever he finally came back to the library or crossed her in the halls. But like her brother, she hadn't seen Dorian in any of her wandering - not near the tavern or by the library, or even in the garden. Luin also remained elusive, but when she asked Cassandra about the journey, Cassandra insisted that no one had been critically injured and that they might be just resting.

_"The journey was arduous and exhausting. We weren't sure there was an end to the undead, and we were met with difficulty on the journey back after the elven temple."_

_"But..."_

_"I'm certain they need only to recover a little."_

Kiaran had no reason to trust Cassandra would take her side, and equally had no reason to believe she'd lie to her about something like this. Cassandra was straightforward, and though she might be a weapon of the Chantry, Kiaran could appreciate her approach. She did not spare her with pleasantries or attempt to placate her.

Still, that did not help with the paperwork that had taken over her bedroom, nor did it alleviate the worry that if she didn't figure it all out, and soon, that this would all come down on her, and people were going to die for it.

For all their resources, Kiaran still couldn't believe Leliana hadn't tracked down scholars that could better sort through this.

With ink staining her nailbeds and a smear on her cheek she'd given up on trying to clean, she left her room of scattered papers to find something to eat. The sun beamed brightly in the sky, and though the fortress itself remained cold after dark, Skyhold seemed to herald the coming of a real spring. A much kinder climate than Haven ever was. Descending the stairs, Kiaran let out a large yawn and attempted to stretch the sleepiness from her bones.

She even went through the old Trevelyan lineage tome, as much as she hated it, merely because Aedhin expressed in a letter that he was worried this might actually be partially connected to their family, somehow. Kiaran did not reply to the letter, and hoped her silence indicated that he owed her, big time. Neither twins' name existed in the current generation's ledger. And now, three days after returning to Skyhold, he still hadn't come to ask her what she found or why she was ignoring him. That wasn't like him, but no one ran around panicking for his health, and she caught no terrified gossip in the halls about any injuries or violent outbursts in the War Room.

Kiaran pushed her hands through her greasy hair, thumbs pressed in her temples. It was dark in Skyhold the last time she'd left to eat, and she needed...to stop doing that...Skyhold was safe enough, and everyone minded their own around her now - it almost felt like...

Kiaran stopped midstep and scowled.

This wasn't home.  _This will never be home_ , she berated herself.  _And neither will Aedhin._

"Andraste's ass, Matchsticks, it's a wonder they don't send you first on the field with a look like that. You and the Seeker could deal some serious damage on sneers alone."

She looked up to Varric exiting the kitchen door with a half-eaten pear in hand, and a basket of food tucked under the other arm.

"The ambassador says the same thing, funny," she muttered in response, crossing both arms. "You're grabbing breakfast late."

His smile was unreadable. "So are you. Little past the middle of the night, don't you think?"

 _Cole_. "Who hasn't he told?"

Varric barked a sharp laugh, and Kiaran's frown set deeper. "I made a comment to Curly how he looks like he's been eating regular meals, and he told me it's because that's where you two end up when you bitch at each other."

"We don't always...we haven't even..." she began, voice raising, but cut herself off, looked down at the basket. "Where are you going with all of that?"

"Ah," he said, and Varric shrugged, smile in place. "My friend should be here sometime today but he's not really about crowds. I figured I'd grab something aside so he can get some rest before the Inquisitor is ready to see him."

Kiaran sighed. The friend she was supposed to help keep hidden.

"Aedhin asked me help," she reminded him, and another sigh escaped her. "He's welcome to use my room, I guess. I'll just nap in the library in the meantime."

"You can do that? Ruffles won't lose it?"

A tired smile tugged at her lips, and she bit it back. "I'd like to see her try and stop me."

Varric laughed. "You guys are going to get along great."

"So you keep saying."

"I have a knack for these things," he replied cryptically, and with a nod stepped past her. "And hey...maybe try to take a real nap once in a while."

As if he understood. Hunger forgotten - or replaced, as it were - and nausea in place, Kiaran turned around, back across the fortress courtyards. The Breach might be stable now, but it was no less powerful, and her trips through the Fade each night were draining at best. Last night had been the worst journey in years, and she almost hadn't been able to find her way out, to wake up. But with a fortress filled to the brim with Aedhin's templar allies, she couldn't share it. She wanted to ask more of the Circle mages that joined the Inquisition from Orlais, but they were loyal to Vivienne and her plans to rebuild the Circles through the Inquisition. Kiaran trusted them no more than she did the templars Aedhin brought from Therinfal.  

Cullen might be sympathetic. Or this could be a final push among all these Venatori and Red Templars to scrap all their conversations and half-sketched ideas on the failure of the Circle of Magi and the Templar Order, and ensnare both of them back where they started --wary of magic, wary of each other. Worse off, her with some kind of warden or keeper under the pretense of protecting her and protecting Aedhin. Then how would she find some reasonable way through the mountains to get out? Before Cullen or his soldiers found reason to scrutinize every other mage in the castle the same way? And though she still did not particularly enjoy Dorian, he could have been a reference, but he might as well have turned to dust since the four of them came back from the Exalted Plains. From the walkway, she could see Cassandra sparring in the other courtyard. She might be more flexible - she kept Solas around after all - or she might assume her possessed and take matters in her own hands there. Cassandra was straightforward.

In this, at least, Kiaran was certainly alone.

By the time she'd cleaned up the books, papers, and burned out candles, the sun dropped past Skyhold's walls and the surrounding mountains. The spymaster passed her by in the mess hall when Kiaran stopped in to eat, mentioned that it would not be long before Aedhin met with the war council and that Kiaran should, "definitely meet with Varric on the balcony over the gazebo, before Cassandra returns from sparring with him."

Another sigh - how many times had that been today? - but Kiaran agreed without argument. So the friend arrived after all. Her head ached...she hoped this exchange would be quick, and maybe she could put in a short, uninterrupted nap, to build her strength.

Following Leliana was a hooded figure, a little taller than Kiaran, face hidden by cowl. On the corner of their cloak, a tiny pin with a winged masked that had been gouged through by a knife.

By the time Kiaran recognized the symbol, both were gone.

What was an Antivan Crow doing in Skyhold?

That rolling uneasiness returned to her, and she left her meal half-eaten to find Varric, as requested. Stars peeked out through clouds overhead, and Kiaran pulled her cloak tighter around her to keep out the chilly breeze that passed over the walkways. Glancing ahead, she saw the lamps burning orange and yellow in Cullen's office. Brows furrowed, she probably should ask about the stranger with Leliana --it had been Crows that came after her and Aedhin months ago, after all. If he knew, he'd probably tell her. She touched the slight raise of scarring across her neck. She did not remember very much of that night, but she did remember receiving the wound. Kiaran wondered if she'd ever be able to forget.

"You know, my brother's face got stuck like that because he was frowning all the time," a rough, deep voice said behind her.

She jumped, both hands raised and sparkling with energy to defend, when the source of it descended next to her, tall and hidden in a dirty brown traveler's cloak. When he flashed a grin at her, it was weary, edged with strain and rage, familiar, like scorch lines from the burdens of the only person trying to save a city under fire.

"Name's--"

"Hawke," she breathed, but it sounded more like an accusation, mingled with equal parts exhaustion and awe. "I know."

"Well that sucks the fun out of it." He peered at her with squinting eyes. "We've met, have we? Wait, don't tell me."

Anxiety and overtired irritation replaced awe in her almost as soon as he spoke. "...Darktown."

Hawke snapped his fingers and gave a clipped nod. "I remember now. The jumpy little mouse picking off templars near the clinic."

Another sigh, again, the hundredth? Thousandth? This was that kind of day, was it? "Please don't..."

"Jumpy as ever, I see." Hawke lazily stretched and draped himself over the crates near them. "Good to see some people actually did make it out of there. Unpossessed and no scars either, good on you."

The look he gave her indicated he also wanted her to sit. She chose to stand instead, and after a stretch of quiet, Hawke shrugged and pulled a flask from his belt. "Varric says you're the Inquisitor's sister."

"He does love to share, doesn't he."

"You have the better position, all things considered. Tell me, is your brother really the shining hero they're talking about in every tavern from here to Nevarra? Sounds boring."

She glanced over to the other tower, where the lamps still shone bright. "Seeker Pentaghast sometimes trains in the evening. We should go." She nodded over her shoulder. Hawke looked like he might argue, even flexed his shoulders a little as he stood up. He all but towered over her, a solid three - maybe four? - inches taller than Cullen. Kiaran curled both hands into fists again and dug her fingernails into her palms.

"I'd like to meet her," Hawke said, voice low, vibrating with anger and mana. "She owes Varric an apology."

"No, no, no."

He met her objection with both eyebrows lifted.

Kiaran pressed both hands into her temples. "If...if that's what you're doing here, then just...just don't." He said nothing, and when she looked back at him, he still wore that confrontational expression, thick arms folded across his chest. Eyes burning amber, almost orange, in the low light, challenged her for more. Cassandra was plenty capable but if this turned into a fight, Kiaran had no illusion of who would emerge the victor.

"She's...she's the only person who has my brother's back out there," she stammered, "Don't you ever just...get tired of being violent?"

Hawke advanced a single step, and Kiaran sucked back a gasp to hold her ground, and was sure she broke skin through her palms as he leaned forward to meet her eye-to-eye. She held her breath, even as his eyes settled into a thin glare and he reached out to grab her by the chin, the metal fingers of his gauntlet cold and sharp on her skin. Kiaran did not flinch, but lightning crackled again in her hands.

"How long were you there?" he asked in a low, threatening murmur.

"Almost nine years," she snarled back, straightened her shoulders. Hawke tightened his grip and brought his face closer to hers, and the sparks in her hands sizzled out as his energy surrounded them.

"Then you know," Hawke slowly shook his head, "That the violence will always follow you. You survive when you answer it before it calls." There was no trace of the humour she'd come to love in the book when Hawke smiled at her then. "But you know all about that."

"I--"

"Serah Hawke, if you would please  _unhand_ Lady Trevelyan."

Her shoulders dropped in relief as Cullen stepped between them and Hawke let her go with a flick his wrist, then spread both arms in greeting with a growing grin.

"Knight-Captain--"

"Commander," Cullen corrected, and balanced both hands on the pommel of his sword. "Your meeting with the Inquisitor is delayed. Accommodations have been set, and you can meet Varric downstairs at the Herald's Rest to find more." Kiaran lifted a hand to reach out to him, but the whispers among the walls muttered in her mind and she settled to cross her arms over her instead.

"I see you took off the mantle, but you kept the stick up your ass." Hawke laughed, and this time, the sound was more easy going. He clapped a hand on Cullen's shoulder as he passed, and Cullen pressed his lips into an unimpressed grimace, watching as he turned the corner and descended the stairs toward the tavern.

It wasn't until Kiaran let out her breath that he looked at her.

"What was that about?"

She stiffened again. "...Aedhin asked me to meet Varric's friend, I didn't know it--"

"I'm sorry," Cullen groaned a put a hand to the back of his neck. "I did not intend to sound accusatory. It's been a long day, and I only just learned Hawke was here, as well. Your brother's new trainer knocked him unconscious a little while ago and Cassandra saw fit to..." He shook his head, and then nodded toward his tower.

"Your brother's fine, but let's speak inside."

Kiaran followed. For once, the office was warm, and a fire roared brightly in the hearth. Kiaran divested of cloak and hood and draped it on the cushioned bench, only to then realize she'd left books there too.

"What happened to Aedhin?" she asked as she turned, "I saw an Antivan Crow following Leliana in the mess hall..."

"Former, apparently." Cullen rolled his eyes. "She comes recommended by one of the Hero of Ferelden's companions, one that Leliana has a lot of trust in. She's an excellent combatant but it would seem she holds no sympathy for injuries in her training. Luindir had the courtesy to bring this forward a little before it happened, and he's looking after your brother now."

"He still won't wear a helmet?"

"No. Luckily, he seems himself, but..." Cullen let out an aggravated groan. "Maker, there's tension enough in this fortress  _without_ the Champion here to insert his own colourful additions."

Kiaran settled in the chair near the bookshelf with her knees tucked under her. "I can't believed I tried to pick a fight with Hawke." She looked down at her hands. "But he wanted to see Cassandra about Varric, and..."

To this, Cullen laughed as he approached her and reached for a bottle on the shelf. "Andraste's mercy on the mage that challenges her, but good on you for..." She tilted up her chin as he froze, and his eyes were on her neck. Self consciously she put a hand over her throat.

"Did Hawke do that?"

She shook her head, and instead of grabbing the bottle Cullen reached for her. His fingers hung suspended in front of her for a moment before he gently raised her chin. His brows furrowed and she watched as a muscle pulsed at the back of his jaw.

"You're covered in them. One of the templars? Is this why you've locked yourself away all week? If someone is hurting you..."

Her ears burned. Obviously the rumour about the marks hadn't reached his office. "It's nothing..."

With one hand on the chair and the other resting beneath her chin, Cullen leaned down to inspect the injuries. "These are...fingerprints, Maker's breath..." Cullen stepped away. "I'll just have Rylen run the men harder until we find out, if you won't be forthcoming--"

"It's not..."

"Must you always be so stubborn?" he demanded and whirled around to stare at her. "Should I commission in print the list of people concerned for your health and happiness?" Anger turned to regret on his face as Kiaran bowed her head to her knees. The tears are from being overtired, she said to herself as she bit into her lip to hold them back, and blinked furiously to will them away.

"They...won't."

There was the thudding of his boots on the floor as he approached her, and she flinched when he came to a stop. Then, he dropped to a knee with one hand on her elbow. "Then...I will." A deep breath, and he asked again, softer this time, "Who put their hands on you?"

"Cullen, it..." But she didn't lift her head. She didn't want to see him, but she felt the icy hands pressing her again, trying to smother her into the stone, and her next inhale shook. "It...it's...not..."

"Must I pull out all of our haphazard ideas to present to the First Enchanter?" he asked, and his voice was gentle, almost with the twinge of comfort. "This is not the Circle, Kiaran."

"I'm being targeted by a demon," she muttered.  _Again_ , came the unspoken aside in her mind.

He stilled.

Just as she thought. Kiaran pulled away from him to get to her feet. "I'll figure out how to...handle it. I always do." When his hand touched her shoulder, his touch was delicate, as if he knew how far the bruises spread. "Cullen, let--"

"I was a templar," he began, and walked in front of her, blocked her way, hand still heavy on her shoulder.

"Yes, I'm  _aware_ \--"

Cullen gave her a tired frown. "I  _was_ a templar," he repeated, "So I  _can_ help you, if you allow me, or you can run off and be stubborn and attempt to keep on alone."

"Cullen, I'm tired." Her voice cracked, and the admission came out like a whine, and she felt tears prickle in the corners of her eyes again.

"I can tell." He offered her a weak, understanding smile. "Will you trust me?"

She looked away, but crossed her hand over his and bit down into her lip. "If I didn't..."

"Yes, you'd be long gone." He nodded toward the bench, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Rest while I work, and I'll look after the rest. You need only resist the demon."

With a defeated sigh, she pulled away. "I already mouthed off Garrett Hawke and came out of it in one piece," she muttered, and set her other belongings aside to lie across it. "Guess I'm feeling lucky." She let out a shiver, to try and shake off the instinct to run - to not show vulnerability here, in front of him. What had he said that one time? Kiaran stifled a yawn as she tried to remember.  _Pain can be endured._

Cullen was already turned away and sorting through stacks of reports on his desk.

"Not lucky," he mumbled under his breath, so faint she almost missed it. "...looked after..."

This time the yawn overtook her, and though she tried to blink away the fatigue, it pulled her eyes closed. The room went silent almost as soon as her eyes shut, and she sank into the Fade's embrace again.


End file.
